Bunny

Unlike my street, which smells of sad man piss, hers smells of autumn leaves

“The real world, lady. It’s out there. Do you even know that? You’re going to have to get back to it sometime.”

Why can’t you be happy? Why do you always assume the worst about every situation?

Well. Because I love you, Bunny. Actually. You’re actually my favorite.

You’re my favorite too, I lied. But in that moment, I meant it. I meant it so much I cried.

Completely immune to the disdain of their fellow graduate student. Me. Samantha Heather Mackey. Who is not a Bunny. Who will never be a Bunny.

secretly hope for

Ava squeezes my arm, hard.

The Duchess turns and arches an eyebrow at us. She raises a hand up. Is there an invisible gun in it? No. It’s an empty, open hand. With which she then waves. At me. With something like a smile on her face. Hi, her mouth says.

“I miss you, Bunny. This summer was so hard without you. I barely wrote a word, I was so, so sad. Let’s never ever part again, please?”

the verbal and physical affection so intense that it borders on violence

What’s the lesson here, Smackie?

Don’t jump to conclusions?

Never lower your gaze first.