My stomach? Slush.
My heart? Suspicious.
Me, to the ceiling: “Brooke?”
AI Brooke:“Yes, Miss Allison.”
“Is there a way to keep him without falling for him?”
AI Brooke:“Unlikely. Exposure breeds intimacy. You have engaged in emotional exposure. It is statistically difficult to recover from this.”
“Exposure breeds intimacy?
“Sounds fake, but okay.”
65 hours post-hug event
(not that i'm counting)
// NOV 05, 1:28 PM - CELIE'S WALK-UP - NOLITA, NYC //
Seven hours left until the seventy-two hour window slams shut and decapitates me.
I didn’t come to Celie’s for lunch.
I came to commit a felony under the influence of oxytocin and a jawline haunting my brain.
Premeditated.
First-degree.
No remorse whatsoever.
Celie thinks I’m here for the pita sandwiches she’s making. She thinks I missed her, thinks I want to talk about Drake over chilled cucumber water. She has no idea I’ve been eyeing her phone as if it were the last exit out of hell. And I’d crawl through it, chest first, palms bloodied, smiling the whole way up.
She’s chopping cucumbers.
I’m calculating how long it would take to swipe her phone and lock myself in the bathroom without getting caught.
“What’s your cut-off dick size again?” she asks, like she’s asking about shoe sizes.
“Four and a half inches. Max.”
Her knife pauses.
“So you’ll eat a 5th Avenue chocolate bar, but not Fifth Avenue dick?”
Hahaha…
She thinks she’s cute.
She thinks she’s funny.
All she managed
was giving me a 5th Avenue craving.
“Four-point-five,” I confirm. “Just enough to know the cock is there, not enough to leave a memory.” Then I narrow my eyes. “And you know I don't give head. Would rather cut out my tongue with a pair of dull scissors than lick a dick.”
