Love poisoned her mind. Not that you see it. Unless you observe her closely or might have known her for a long time.
He only just met her. Not more than two hours ago. He doesn’t know her but he thinks he does. She says it’s a common male conceit. These presumptions he makes about her. Spouting conjecture. Tiresome. Tedious.
She shows her freshly painted fingernails.
Don’t you have a bikini that colour, he says held in a time warp of distraction. He hasn’t seen her in a red bikini.
I’ve got lots of bikinis. I’ve got lots of bottles of nail varnish. I grade my swimwear according to my tan. I don’t like startling contrast.
Have you got yellow in the collection?
I’ve got yellow bottoms but not tops.
Do you shave?
How do you pick out your clothes to wear? I mean is your underwear all different colours.
Fuck you perv.
He wants too feed her lots of chocolate donuts and reject her. Drop her there and then. They bought a boxed dozen from Krispy Kreme’s.
You like sprinkles. Right.
He looks at her. Sprinkles? He likes plain chocolate. Glazed. No textures.
She tells him she once use to use laxative chocolate. She liked fried chicken and fries. But she didn’t want to get fat. After six months of abuse she had stomach and bowel problems.
You wouldn’t have wanted to see me in a bikini then.
And just so you know. I either wear white or black underwear.
And pantyhose? He laughed.
Fuck you perv. Haven’t you noticed its summer. She laughed too.
Your feeding me all this chocolate. All this sugar. You inject the conversation with poetry. But I don’t do love or sex. I don’t do feelings. I don’t like French hip hop or Dr Pepper.
There was a certain anger. Desperation in her voice. The measure of calm collapsed into hysteria.
She picked up the donut box and scurried across the room and tossed it out the window.
Look I’m in control.
It’s a shame you never bought any yellow bikini tops. I like things to be coordinated.