Warning: the following drabble contains strong language, sexual inferences, and begins with dialogue (a deadly sin of fiction, no?). Reader discretion is advised.
“Big nipples are making a comeback,” he whispers to you as we settle into our seats.
“Nipples, or areolae?” you sass.
Glassy green eyes cut to your chest. “Ultra-trendy,” he replies, either not perceiving your disdain, or dismissing it as part of his one-sided flirtation ritual.
He thinks he’s giving you an appreciated compliment. He thinks his cutting-edge recycled quill will take him closer to your weighty nib’s (nip’s) dipping into his stale inkpot. He thinks you aren’t picky, so long as he offers a hole bigger than his ear to insert your sought-after kudos. He thinks if he eliminates the rook, he will settle you into the wife’s seat inside the chief’s wigwam—groom you into docility; impress you with his vapid MVP status, a locker door, Mod Podge collage of envious must-haves and bootlegged top-ten playlists he populated with who’s who scandal clippings, screenshotted texts from a suicidal classmate, and overly precious banal quotes by overread maudlin poets.
Boeuf. He bores me, so I have nothing else to write about him; I have already wasted 120 seconds of my patience describing his trademark neck sweat, otherwise known as Elite VIP Fragrance du Jour—ersatz as his “nice guy”, look at me! I talk to ugly people, too (even though I’m not-so-secretly the ringleader bully)! persona.
When you respond to his entitled overtures—indirectly, with a mocking glare, in a dead-on imitation of his breathy vocals, aping his widened peepers—I laugh quietly to myself and send you a gif of David Bowie’s from-the-underground-vault performance of “Young Americans” (It’s on America’s tortured brow that Mickey Mouse has grown up a cow) and pretend not to notice when you pull my pigtails in assent from the back row. You pass me a note folded into a cat’s cradle and stroke my chipped Milky Way nail polish as I accept it.
Now what was that you said about letting me pants you after lights-out?
Ain’t my day to offer a rebuttal. But…
Don’t let me down! You’re the only guest I invited to sleep over. I’ve already frozen your bra.
I won’t be needing it.
Snickering—doodling before diddling—we are the only girls in on the joke.
© Jane Bled 2018
All Rights Reserved.
Inspiration from an unwanted Odwalla beverage. Why not?