“See, it’s not her fault,” Abi replied with a victorious smirk, happy that he had agreed she was right. “It’s just a burden, right? People being scared of saying certain things around you must lead to them avoiding you. It’s fucking awful.” Though part of her kind of wanted to see what Ernest Hemingway would look like as a pregnant woman; it was a weird image but oddly compelling to think about as well.
They were going around and around in circles with the guilt shit, her feeling guilty for bringing it up and him feeling guilty for her feeling guilty. It had to stop, and she wanted to just make up for it, to give him an out from having to talk about battlefield experiences. “So, my first month in college classes, I met this super-fucking-hot TA just walking around the squad, literally bumped into him and spilled orange mango smoothie all down his shirt. And he looks up at me, and all his class’s papers are scattered everywhere and he’s dripping juice down his front and down his pants, everybody staring, and he looks at me like he’s about to yell at me for like three seconds. I felt so awkward that I burst out laughing and I said to him ‘You want me to lick it up?’ I swear to God I have never literally seen someone’s face move so quickly from angry to turned-on.” She giggled at the memory, even though that encounter hadn’t led to anything. “He was a good guy about it, I paid for his dry cleaning and we were cool.”
Her grin split her face from ear to ear when he said she looked youthful and not like a child. Abi thought it was probably a good thing she didn’t look her actual age; it meant she’d get through some extra time before thinking she looked old and worn out. Not that that wasn’t far off. “Well thanks, she replied. “I don’t think I look too bad for a 29-year-old. Though I think if this year really is 2018, I was meant to be 41 in January. I don’t know which one I am.”
The prospect of getting to write again was enough, but to be mentored by one of her literary heroes? Abi must have died and gone to Heaven if this place kept giving her these gifts. “I can’t not be around someone with a like mind. If I’m not, my passion tends to just wither and die off for months on end. You ever get that? It’s… the second I start talking about writing and books and even the whole linguistic side, my blood pumps quicker and I get so much energy running through me.” Abi didn’t quite like to mention the other side effects it had on her too; perhaps if the writing thing worked out, she’d make it a nice surprise for him. “Like right now, just thinking about it, my heart is going a million miles an hour…” She grabbed his hand, placing the palm around her collar so he could feel it. “I’ll be as brutally honest as I can, as long as I get it in return.”
She let her hand linger over his for a moment, her head dancing with all kinds of ideas about what might happen. Abi loved this part; the beginning, when everything was new and exciting, when there was no pressure or heavy emotion, just lust and intrigue. It was pointed to her that they were still talking and her interest hadn’t waned and had in fact grown bigger.
“You haven’t met her yet? Oh man, if those stories are actually true, she’s freaking crazy. It was that decade I guess, female liberation and sexual freedoms, losing the shackles and being seen as more than a mother, as people with desires. Maybe they went a little crazy being let off the leash.” Her eyes sparkled at his comment, though she didn’t think her stories were anything compared to his. “I got up to my fair share in my late teens and early 20s, I tell you that. The rest you have to earn, Ernie.”
Sipping her sweet, milky coffee again and smiled. “Me being an obtuse asshole whenever they asked me real questions about my life. I’ve got better over the years but there’s something that always holds me back from people. I dunno, I get this sixth sense if there’s something I don’t like, and my brain won’t let me be vulnerable like that.”
In all honesty, it probably was all she truly needed to keep her satiated. “For the most part, yeah. I eat a lot of chocolate, but I can run a fucking mile afterwards. Sugar rushes, man, they are no joke.”