[CONTENT NOTE: Unpleasantries abound. Proceed accordingly.]
So, it’s our anniversary; be honest, baby, what do you see in our future?
I want to feed on your youth and beauty until I’ve devoured or defiled everything about you that could ever be of use.
What? Wait, I don’t– did you just call me beautiful?
More or less.
Thank you, you’re so sweet.
Sweet as habanero. Speaking of which, what are you ordering?
I don’t know, I was thinking–
Don’t. Don’t do that. It makes your face ugly, and I depend on your face to make this relationship work.
But you asked– wait… why my face?
Look down, for fuck’s sake. Nothing there for me to get excited about, right? So everything’s riding on your shoulders.
Stop. You’re so mean to me. Be sweet again.
I’ll be sweet when you can figure out how to be your sister.
Please no. Don’t talk about that, not tonight. You’ll make me really sad.
Talking to you at all makes me sad; thinking about your sister’s pussy is the only thing that makes me feel better.
God, please. I mean, she can’t… is she– fuck, is she that much better than me?
You act like being better than you is some kind of achievement. That bar is pretty damned low.
I think– I think I might be sick. Can I go? Go be sick?
No, of course not. Hold it in. Dinner’s cheaper that way.
But I really need–!
You’ll at least wait until they bring our entrees. Then you can barf your way to a comp’d meal.
Some– sometimes I think you care more about money than you do about me.
Quit lying to yourself. You don’t just think it; you know it.
Is it so wrong, that I want to pretend?
No. But it’s wrong to make me keep reminding you to snap out of it.
I’m sorry.
No, you’re not. If you were really sorry, you’d be dying inside right now. You’d be wanting to crawl under a rock and disappear. You’d feel like an insignificant little piece of garbage for wasting one second of my time on your self-indulgent, bullshit feelings.
Oh.
So is that how it is?
Y-yes.
How is it? Tell me how it is.
I’m– I’m dying. Inside. Like I’m already under a rock. A boulder. I feel– I feel sick and I can’t breathe.
I thought you were sorry.
I am!
If you’re sorry, it’s because you know you’re garbage. Is that what you are?
Yes. I’m– I’m garbage. All I’ve ever been.
Well, garbage doesn’t get sick. Garbage doesn’t need air. Garbage just gets kicked around until it decomposes.
Or… or someone turns it into something new. Right?
Remains to be seen. How’s the breathing?
It’s better. I’m still sick to my stomach.
That’ll happen.
I– I really am sorry.
I know. I don’t feel it yet, but I know.
Okay. I understand. Anyway… thank you for before. For saying I’m pretty.
You’re welcome. And thank you for holding down your sister while I had the best orgasm of my life.
…
Well, fuck. Waiter? We’re gonna need a mop over here.
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