He kisses my neck and recoils.

“Lotion?” he asks and I shake my head.

“No,” I say.  “I’m just sad, but this bitterness is spreading.”


“Like fruit that’s been bitten through by bugs, rotting from the inside out.  Unsalvagable.”

“Alcohol?” he asks, looking for a silver lining.  He reaches across the table for my hand.

“Vinegar,” I correct and get up from the table, remove his fingers from their grasp upon mine, go over to the fridge.  Stand mostly naked in front of its light.  Breasts sagging, hair wilting.

The stamina of yogurt is beyond me.

Wonder how long it takes to make sauerkraut from scratch.  Wonder how long it takes to give up.  Wonder what we’re going to make for dinner.

The kitchen fan doesn’t work right.  I open the window even though we don’t have a screen.  Summer doesn’t seem as fun as it used to when I was lovable and the bills were paid on time.

“Want to order in?”

One more bad decision for the road.

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Victoria Young

Writer. Dater. Masturbator. Stop ruining my jokes by believing the self-deprecation. I am far greater than your boner will ever know.