Girls in Love
Rosie is being followed. Her ex-boyfriend is having a hard time accepting the prefix.
Across the table from me, Rosie looks a little drunk. She’s wearing an Adidas sweatshirt and a headband made out of Swarovski crystals. It cost $95—an impulse purchase from thirty minutes prior, made on the walk from her house to the restaurant. All three of us, for some reason, are eating clam chowder for breakfast. The weather on the patio is San Franciscan, gray, and vaguely wet.
Lo had called me because thirty-six hours after she took the pill, I would be there while she bled, without looking sad or sympathetic or admiring or whatever it was she didn’t want to see reflected back at her.
“What does it feel like?” I asked later, as we tried to go to sleep. She was facing the window and I was behind her on the bed, working my fingertips over the roots of her hair.
kind of a bitch?
The Joy of Sex;
“You need to report him,” I begin, though already the suggestion feels stupid. On the night Rosie let him into the house, Ben told her that he was being sent back to Afghanistan in a month.
I love you, but you’re ridiculous.
The bloating is worth the bonding, the bloating is worth the bonding,
I could climb that.
hey, fancy meeting you here,
Love you so much. We had a blast. See you soon.
-M & L
Deena is a writer and editor living in Los Angeles, California. She is the founder of Nouvella, an award-winning, independent publishing company dedicated to novella-length works of fiction by emerging and established authors. Her writing has appeared in Catapult, The Millions, Girlboss, the Sacramento News & Review, and other outlets.
More in this series
The MC introduced each contestant, and at the end, said that that year’s grief counselors in black would like to be called the Bereavers. He mispronounced it as the Beliebers, and the audience laughed, because they are American, and have no idea what Bereaver could mean.