He grimaced. “No.”
30
In the morning, I smiled as sunlight scampered across my closed eyes.
Dig stood over me, donning a pair of dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt. His heart-shaped glasses were polished, his hair damp from a shower. He smelled like vanilla. “Hey Princess. Do you want me to cry yet?”
We sat at the dining table, eating scrambled eggs.
“Salt please.” I clicked my fingers.
He passed me the salt, but not before moving my knife out of my radius. “You tried to slice my throat last night. I found that very impolite.”
“I was sleepwalking.”
“You were trying to leave.”
“Where did the eggs come from?”
“From chickens.”
“And where did the chickens come from?”
“From eggs.”
“Do you think I’m odd?” I asked.
He looked up, seemingly confused by the sudden change of topic. “What did you say?”
“Because I can’t cry,” I said. “Do you think I’m odd? Like there’s something wrong with me?”
He stood up, kicking back his chair and ripped the fork from my hand. I lost a breath as he heaved me out of the chair and bent me over the table,forcing my head down. “Don't you ever think that again. There’s nothing wrong with you, you are perfect.”
“People don’t tend to like me.”
“Because people are fucking stupid.” He ripped down my underwear and smacked me hard against my bare ass. “And we don't trouble ourselves with stupid people.”
I gasped into a smile from the sting of his smack and the sweetness of his words. “What I mean is, I’m not everyone's cup of tea.”
“Don’t be tea.” His lips pressed against my ear. “Be petrol. Set the world on fire.”
“But I’m a good person.”
“Morals have aesthetic criteria. You kill a cockroach, you're a hero. You kill a butterfly, you're evil. Your version of ‘good’ is different to others. And to me Princess? You're fuckingperfect.”
I lifted my head in thought. “Huh.”
“Now, when I go out, don’t try to leave or mess up the place.” He patted my ass and walked away. “If you can do that, I’ll give you a massage tonight.”
“Huh?” I looked over my shoulder, annoyed. “Where are you going?”
He shrugged on his leather jacket. “Work.”
I frowned. “Work?”
He took a knife off the wall. He inspected it and slipped it into his belt and armed himself with more weapons.
“What do you mean work?” I stayed bent over the table, hoping he’d return.
