“You’re sick.” Arms folded at the door with disgust tucked behind a growl. “Congratulations, you’re the sickest fuck I’ve ever known.” And she stood there staring, waiting for a shame that would never come.
“…Well? Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” And I did, but not what she was expecting.
“This is so unexpected, I didn’t even prepare a speech.” I said standing, holding the nearby remote to my chest. “For starters I’d like to thank my lord and savior: God Almighty, without whom none of this would be possible, and of course all my old lovers and friends. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Her face considered leaving and as she took slow steps in my direction I couldn’t tell what made her stay; not until I saw my naked reflection in her dark pupils. Disproportionate. Desperate. Indifferent. A pile of human wreckage she felt digusted by but couldn’t keep from watching. Everyone loves to see a car crash, but nobody wants to stick around and count the bodies.
“Who am I today?” She was bitter. Cold. Unbuttoning her blouse angrilly as if she were dressing for work on a Monday. “The coffee girl? An ex again?” With a hangover.
And I smiled like depravity came on Christmas.
“Everyone.” Then she shoved me, and as I lay flat on my back dove her face to kiss me. But I stopped, waving a finger between our breaths. “Ah-ah,” with the honey of her skin pulsing over me. “cash up front.”
And her lips, pursed with words rehearsed on table tops and living room floors, rebelled against the current. But she spat them anyway, wanting to spite me, wanting to hurt me.
“I don’t love you.”
Atta girl.
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