Naughty Brits

by Sarah MacLean

“Pour yourself a coffee and wait for breakfast like a good girl.” Unf. She did as she was told, telling herself that responding so thoroughly to being called good girl was offset by the fact that she was absolutely going to sexually objectify this wildly handsome man while he cooked her breakfast.

She reached for her laptop, opening and unlocking it, pulling up a search window and turning it to him. “There’s excellent Wi-Fi out here.” “The sheep riot if they don’t have it,” he deadpanned, setting his fingers to the keyboard and typing her name.

burrata

“You’re more than your body. Don’t let your body put limits on what you want to do.”

effluvia

dichotomy

That’s the danger of dwelling on the future I wanted—it turns into pining for the man who took so much of it away. I make myself remember the gutting, lonely moments alone in the narthex, the slow heat of the tears when I realized he wasn’t coming. When I realized that I’d been made a fool of—and worse. When I realized I loved someone more than he loved me. There’s no word for stupidity that profound.

I will scratch out his eyes while reciting passages from the Egyptian Book of the Dead, I will hum Latin hymns while I bite his heart out. I don’t care what kind of god he is, he is a dead god to me, and I will build a temple to bitterness out of his bones. He will be my burnt offering and I will send that smoke all the way to heaven. I will char the world with the pride he stole from me.