Bunny (Bunny, #1)

by Mona Awad

Now we’re back at her place drinking the sangria she made that’s so strong I’m pretty sure it’s poison.

It’s just . . . you know, these are the women in my department, my . . . you know . . . peers.” “Whom you call Cuntscapades.”

Why do you lie so much? And about the weirdest little things? my mother always asked me. I don’t know, I always said. But I did know. It was very simple. Because it was a better story.

Because at Warren, the Body is all the rage. As though everyone in the academic world has just now discovered that they are vesseled in precarious, fastly decaying houses of bone and flesh and my god, what material.

I look at the bunnies. They are fucking staring at me.

But I doubt you did any of those things unless you have a mullet or a deep sense of irony.

I picture Goldilocks brazenly masturbating in this bed while the Three Bears watch.

So what if he cries when we say, Will you fuck us? So what if he explodes when we say, Tell me something about you.

There is something about looking at her that makes us feel like we can’t breathe. Not the rib-aching laugh can’t breathe that we were can’t breathing earlier. Not the those-ducks-are-so-cute can’t breathe. This is different. Like there is a terrible sharp pin she stabbed deep into our lungs that is stuck there forever.

Their cheeks are plump and pink and shining like they’ve been eating too much sugar, but actually it’s Gossip Glow, the flushed look that comes from throwing another woman under the bus.