meghanlyn
"I'll read Catcher in the Rye, and watch me jack-off.."
"What are you singing?"
"'Emo Kid'. Remember in, like, year 8 or 9? Used to sing it to emos. Ha. Emos."
"Oh. Stereotypes are still so fucking annoying. No one can escape them."
"Eh. Get over it."
( I may have cheated and went overtime. Couldn't help it!)
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Repetition. Staff. Time signature. Treble clef. No, no. Perhaps a bass clef would be more appropriate. A dull plucking of a cello. Or perhaps an unenthusiastic kick drum. The conveyor belt of musical notes formed on bars before me. Four/four timing. The crotchets transformed into droplets of water as they fall off the edge of the slow and steady set of bars.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
"Honey, will you get that tap fixed? It's driving me crazy."
Wife, will you get that voice of yours fixed? Maybe muted. It's driving me crazy.
I start drumming my fingers loudly on the kitchen bench, staring at the sink.
She hated that.
She tossed the paper in the bin in fury.
"Two stars ... two stars?! Bloody hell, Brian! What am I meant to do? Show off my perfect, perky breasts and finely manicured pubic hair just to please those dickheads?! Show biz. Hah! Ridiculous."
Her words were drenched in disgust, sarcasm and underlying self-loathing. She turned to the mirror and peeled off her sweater, revealing her muffin-top iced with a few rolls of dotted pale skin and her breasts which were fighting with gravity against her cotton black bra.
Brian cleared his throat and straightened his tie, avoiding the sight of Monica's figure somewhat professionally (the figure which OK! magazine declared as the 'greatest disaster since Kirsty Alley's break-up binge').
"Christ ..." he muttered.