Work for It

by Talia Hibbert

Men, in case anyone on earth has somehow failed to notice, are pigs. I can say this with supreme confidence, since I was a man before I was E.T.

Then, through gritted teeth like I’m bloody Voldemort, he mutters my name. “Griffin.”

I mean, for Christ’s sake, did he have to insult me with Scrabble words? Couldn’t he have just called me a tosser?

I narrowly resist the urge to kick him and tell him to stop. My heart is pounding against my ribs, which are still feeling delicate. He really ought to have some consideration for my condition.

“Mum used to tell me fear will stunt you. Like growing a sunflower inside a cupboard. So I try to take my sunflower outside, even when it kills me.”

My brain tries to tell me I’m an idiot. I tell it we don’t think things like that anymore, and if it’s not going to be a positive part of the team, it can piss off.

Live now, Griff, not in the past or future. It’s no use being a phantom citizen of the present.

I’ve been thinking, lately, that I’d like to stop hating myself forever. I would like to try, anyway. But you know what they say: baby steps.

A voice in my head snaps that my feelings make me weak, but I smother that voice with a pillow and order a Burberry suit for its funeral.

Sometimes I’m so angry with him. How dare he make me feel like he adores me?

trees. But what I have is a week, a rare opportunity, a handful of soon-to-be memories, and a man who doesn’t know I love him.

I sort of want to throw something at him and run away, so I don’t have to face how much I love him or how much it hurts.

Surely French hotels provide free condoms. They’re French.