Every new sentiment is somehow worse than its predecessor. She can't fathom how he does it. They collect like cars piling one on top of the next on a city freeway, thoughtful monologue of blaring horns, runaway tires and mass casualties. She's mortified. Feels laid out across the pavement.
Carolina thinks about dropping him flat on his ass.
She thinks about bidding him goodbye and sending him off in the opposite direction, never to see him again.
She considers the horror of him— Gerry goddamn Keay, cryptic, scrawny, shoddy dye-job, covered in tattoos and cloaked in black and so, so far from the military meat-heads who she might have entertained otherwise— in the same awful, chrome-and-glass room as her father, poorly indulging his Southern traditionalism.
And what, exactly, are your intentions Mistah Keay? He'd ask in his slack-jaw drawl, and Gerry would respond with something crass or stupid or both. Probably get himself killed.
He's looking at her again. She wishes he wouldn't do that. Her face is a clenched fist.
"That's all very sweet, Gerry," She says, indulging in his stupid game of pretend before she can tell herself not to. "I'm touched." There's a lowness to her voice, as if she'll turn on him at any moment. "We can consummate the union by never speaking about it again. How's that sound?"
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Date: 2025-05-31 11:38 pm (UTC)Every new sentiment is somehow worse than its predecessor. She can't fathom how he does it. They collect like cars piling one on top of the next on a city freeway, thoughtful monologue of blaring horns, runaway tires and mass casualties. She's mortified. Feels laid out across the pavement.
Carolina thinks about dropping him flat on his ass.
She thinks about bidding him goodbye and sending him off in the opposite direction, never to see him again.
She considers the horror of him— Gerry goddamn Keay, cryptic, scrawny, shoddy dye-job, covered in tattoos and cloaked in black and so, so far from the military meat-heads who she might have entertained otherwise— in the same awful, chrome-and-glass room as her father, poorly indulging his Southern traditionalism.
And what, exactly, are your intentions Mistah Keay? He'd ask in his slack-jaw drawl, and Gerry would respond with something crass or stupid or both. Probably get himself killed.
He's looking at her again. She wishes he wouldn't do that. Her face is a clenched fist.
"That's all very sweet, Gerry," She says, indulging in his stupid game of pretend before she can tell herself not to. "I'm touched." There's a lowness to her voice, as if she'll turn on him at any moment. "We can consummate the union by never speaking about it again. How's that sound?"