She’d never felt quite so alone. Absentmindedly, she grabbed her cell yet again. No new messages. What’s the point of getting her an Arai helmet with matching gear, if he wasn’t ever going to take her out on the bike? The two texts after her frantic calls all morning, thinking that he had somehow gotten into a horrific bike accident, were quick and stoic. Been talking to Nik about our relationship. Sorry to worry you.
She huffed. It doesn’t take more than a minute to message a quick I can’t come by today. Does he even care? Or is he really just enjoying the envious looks from parading her around in barely anything and slapping her plump ass? Her $300 49ers jacket they’d gotten a week ago at the game hung loosely down her torso. She was hungry. Not for food. God no, not for food. For attention and dare she utter the word: love.
Someone had always cared for her, no matter what abuse she doled out. Some friend or caring creature jumped to fulfill her boredom and laughed obligatorily at her sarcasms and self-proclaimed sense of style. Now, there isn’t anyone. She’d imagined that the abuse was just a test: if you really cared about me, you would stick around. Hah! Only the Crystal Geiser bottle and brand new lap top daddy bought her lie in front of her.
God, she’s hungry. The fag teetered on a modern ash tray some website said was the “it” thing. A gentle stream of smoke odored the smallish dining room and her less than tan skin. Somewhere outside, her uppity drug dealing neighbor blasted some top 40 hip hop song in his mysterious, new Mercedes E class.
Click. No new messages.
