But, as the poet’s might put it, fuck that shit. “A papaya?” I say, recognizing the fruit. It’s not even a full papaya either; just an itsy bitsy sliver. “I’m a full-bodied woman, not a bird.” “Perhaps you forgot who I am—Famine,” he stresses. “Feel fortunate that I’m feeding you at all.” “I want coffee. Then I’ll feel fortunate. Maybe. Some cake would definitely make me feel grateful.” “You are a human-shaped headache,” he mutters. “What a compliment to headaches everywhere.” “Do you ever stop talking?” “Only if you put something in my mouth,” I say. “I’m partial to food, but dicks work too.”
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