stickiebeatle
The question looms in my head: did i do something wrong? I read through our thread of texts, which were at first so lively and so eloquent and suddenly became cold. Curt. Emotioneless. I wonder if I said something to scare hime away, or if simply lost interest. It pisses me off, not the fact that he isn't fawning over me but that I don't even understand what happened.
It slides out from my hands and lands on the blue floor of the tub. I squint and try to pick up the little green bar again but it continues to evade me. I shrug. Whatever. It can just lay there. I'll pick it up later. If ever. Whatever. Not my house. Not my problem. Not even my own bar of soap. I lather up and let the hot water run down my shoulders. Where am I, and what have I done?
"This was written on a napkin with a crayon," she says, waving it in my face. "It has no credibility whatsoever!"
"It's i nwriting," I remind her. "that's technically a contract."
"This is bull. I don't even remember doing this. I was drunk."
:We might be able to plead something," I tease.
"Insanity?"
"You don't need any vodka for that."
She punches me lightly in the arm.
The pins knock over. Not all of them. Two remain, in the most inconvenient spot possible. He knows no possible roll will knock them both over. not at his level of skill, anyway. He turns to look at her and shrugs. She smiles and shakes her head. she gets it too. So he can't impress her at knocking down some pins with a ball, but somehow, for some reason, she's still there, and she seems to be perfectly okay with the moment.
She holds the gun up against my head. "You see this right here?" she says, voice shaking. "This is the only leverage you're going to get." The cold of the metal presses against my temple and I realize that I'm shaking too. "You're going to back away," she commands. "You're going to do what I say or he goes down before you can even make a sound. Is that understood?"
They were pink and blue, each earbud a different color. She nearly always had them, except in th shower, though if she could have she certainly would. Unfortunately, it meant few people approached her anymore, always thinking their voices would be blasted out by whatever she was listening to. But that was the trick. The headphones where plugged into nothing. She was listening to nothing at all.
She continued to fan herself with the folded-up magAZINE, FEELING HER LIPS DRYING OUT AND THE AWFUL TASTE OF THIRST CREEPING OVER HE TONGUE. oN THE OTHER SIDE OF THE ROOM, HER ROOMMATE HELD AN ICE CUBE TO HER LIPS, TRYING TO STAVE OFF DEHYDRATION AND THE TORRID HEAT OF THE SUMMERTIME IN THE STUFFY DORMITORY.
He wanted to get ice cream. That was all. Just some plain, natural old vanilla ice cream. His last paycheck had come in clocking in at the thousands, and yet the suddenly famous business magnate wanted nothing more than a waffle cone teeming with cold, frozen vanilla goodness. And why not?
Her hands, slightly shaky from the latte she'd sipped as the cake baked, spread the light blue icing over the top of the chocolate cake. It was his favorite color, and while she knew he would have been happy with a simple chocolate cookie for his birthday, she wanted to make sure everything was just right. Slip, slop, over the top went the icing, around and around until the whole thing was finally coated all the way through.
"Goddamn this dial-up internet... you don't have anything faster around here?"
"No sir. All we got."
"Just... fuck it, alright." I stare at the little white modem and sigh. I'm never going to get anything done on this farm. The scathing noise from the hard drive plays as we connect to the internet. Is this 2012, or 1999? I sigh loudly.
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