Leave Them Wanting More

Sticky

“Are you drunk?” Abigail, Dennis’ roommate (and sister), stood near the front door, brows furrowed, an oversized purse over her shoulder.

Dennis grabbed another cube from an ice tray, dropped it into a glass — clink. He looked up from the kitchen table, answered, “Matter of opinion.” He reached for a bottle, pulled the cork — plup — , poured a bronze splash.

“Well, if you’re not,” Abigail said, “you’re well on your way.” She hooked the straps of the purse with her thumb, adjusted.

“I like to think I have goals,” Dennis said. He cupped the glass, swirled, contemplated the golden brown. “Goals are good,” he said, and swallowed.

“Now, if you don’t mind,” he said, tapping the palm rest of his laptop, “I have things to get to.”

She snorted, rolled her eyes, turned to walk away, “You’re an asshole,” slammed the door behind her.

The Worst

Standard

This is the worst day in the history of men. In the history of women. And children, and goats, and lambs, and lions, and giraffes, and clouds, and plumes of smoke, and lungs, and cancer, and boogers, and snot, and piss, and sweat, and tears, and bright ideas, and dimwits, and lampshades, and frosted windows, and frosted flakes, and gluten-free pizza, and garbage cans, and compost bins, and Kleenex, and Post-Its, and felt-tip markers, and pencils in coffee mugs, and styrofoam peanuts, and almonds, and shots of wheat grass, and chocolate starfish, and corral reefs, and electric eels, and USB adapters, and severed spinal cords, and uteri, and periods, and semicolons, and complete assholes.