He shoots laserbeams of hate into the back of her head. Watching her hands move while she describes her disgust with the world’s current events is making him nauseas. Every time she opens her mouth to reply, his jaw twitches and clenches against the sound. He opens the window a crack and watches the exits rattle by.

How had he ended up with this…this…fucking cunt? This fucking crazy, neurotic, ANNOYING bitch?! He wants to slap her. Knock her down. Spit at her feet. She’d MADE him this way. This sniveling ball of almost silent aggression. Her. Fucking always asking for something more. Never satisfied. Always FUCKING BITCHING. What the hell does that mean anyway, “Stop making fun of me.”? Her fucking line right there. “Stop Making Fun Of Me.” Fucking bullshit. His shit was FUNNY, and he knew it. Even she laughed. All the goddamn time.

White divider lines flash past, reflecting off his glassy eyes, like a movie reel. There’s never any PEACE. He can’t ever just HAVE any peace. They’ve always got to be DOING something. (She’s got a vendetta against the TV…a phobia of wasted time.) But today! Didn’t they stay out ALL DAY?! Doing just the type of shit she enjoys? Why shouldn’t he have taken advantage of her rare willingness to drive? Have a few beers. Some whiskey and Coke. Why not? Just to be able to muffle her drone a LITTLE bit. To dull his senses enough to admit he’s unhappy. To let off a little of that pressure.

But NO. Somehow he’s ended up here, folded into this backseat, while she sits up there pretending that she’s NOT A FUCKING STUPID CUNT. Prattling on about nothing. Trying to pretend that there isn’t something WRONG. But she can’t ignore him. She knows he’s back there. He can feel her eyebrow raised in his direction, see the tension running down her neck and shoulders. He’ll hear about this tomorrow. But fuck her. Fuck that princess and her constant dismay. She hasn’t done penance nearly enough for her own depravity. Why feel guilty for that?

Outside, they’re rolling up on their front door and she’s handing the driver his fare. As they exit, she turns her flaming stare to his face and he confronts the full force of its hurt, anger and disgust. He walks to the door after throwing the keys wide right of her reaching hands…they drop to the ground in front of her and he lets out a snort.  Let that bitch bend over and pick them up. It’s not exactly spit at her feet, but the intent is clear. Fuck her. He had a good time.

She closes the door behind them and walks silently to the bedroom to change.  He watches the last of her disappear around the corner and reaches for his cigarettes.  At some point, she’d locked the sliding door to the porch, and its unanticipated weight threw off his already impaired balance.  He’s just gotten it open and stepped outside when he realizes, lighter in hand, that the box is empty.  FUCK!  He stumbles back inside and grabs the keys.  She didn’t know what she was talking about anyway.  He isn’t that drunk.  Before he knows it, he is in the car and looking up into the lighted second floor window.  There she is, that bitch.  Standing there.  Glaring at him.  What the fuck is she looking at?  He pulls out of the space and rolls down the window, middle finger blazing as he drives off toward the gas station.


4 thoughts on “A Study In Loathing

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