"I'm a cunt to everyone," Mary snapped back. "You're not that special, Judas."
But it was true, that she was more of a cunt to him. For good reason. (It also wasn't true that she was a cunt to everyone. She liked to think of herself as high and above it all, but Mary was generally at least pleasantish to most.)
"So if I'm such a nightmare," the saint countered, "then why did you agree to come out with me tonight?"
Mary knew why she'd agreed, the feeling of her holy day still clinging to her skin like tar and oil, a strangling old skin yet quite shed.