“Hey, everyone falls for those kinds of things. It ends up being popcorn consumption, you know? Easy to take in but pretty bland and boring, overhyped kind of stuff. It’s only when you realise what variety is out there that you think popcorn’s kind of overrated?” she tried not to laugh at her own analogy, even if she thought it was pretty clever coming off the cuff as it did. “Well I’m an only child in a mixed family and foster care, so I’m all kinds of fucked up and independent,” Abi chuckled. “I definitely am not one to fit into a singular category. The most interesting people don’t slot into a place, they make mistakes and fuck knows I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”
How he was still listening to her, Abi wasn’t sure, but she was fucking glad he was there. How often did it happen, to come across a compatible mind who listened and could challenge as well? She was so opinionated that people either rolled over and agreed or walked away and both were boring as fuck. He had been a challenge in bed, and here he was pushing her to consider other opinions rather than her own. “Paris, yeah, I read about that. It’s your soul, isn’t it? Or at least part of it. You toil, work hard, suffer, but it means so much more for that. Happiness is like being on vacation, then suffering and work is building a home.” She’d been through some shit, same as any other person who’d been through the American foster care system – nobody adopted a fifteen year old girl who didn’t want a replacement family. People adopted babies, toddlers, kids that they thought they could mould into their own but she was a kid cast from diamonds and titanium; unbreakable. He made an interesting point about learning from happiness; she had felt a lot of happiness in her life and she knew he had too. He’d had children, right? They must have been his happy moments. “Life can’t be just suffering and learning, not for me, I hope. Otherwise I think I’d be even more depressed about it. I’d want to learn to make things better for others as well as myself, not just in order to do nothing about it. Proust knew a lot about suffering, but he didn’t experience a hell of a lot of happiness, so I guess he was jaded.”
Abi arched her eyebrow when he had the gall to actually laugh right in her face. “Who the fuck would knock back an Ernest Hemingway novel? Jesus fucking Christ, Hem. They must be insane. You know, one of the most successful children’s book franchises in history was turned down by dozens of publishing houses. Now there’s movies and toys and shit, and they’re not bad books either. Those assholes must be kicking themselves for not picking up on that plug for the gap in the market.” She agreed about his latter sentiment, though; she’d write first and worry about publishing and editing later.
Abi watched as he brought back a tray with their drinks and a hunk of beautiful, glistening chocolate cake. Her mouth was salivating, and she realised suddenly how hungry she truly was. He could keep his apple cake; what kind of monster put fruit in desserts? She had no idea. But at least he wasn’t gonna steal her chocolate cake. All of it smelled incredible, though.
She took the tray from his hands as he set it down, almost diving on the cake with her finger, scooping up frosting and licking it off with an audible moan. “Oh man, I missed chocolate so much. This is going straight to my thighs and I don’t give a damn.”