Love in the Time of Serial Killers

by Alicia Thompson

I’d rather be seen as a little rude than risk being taken to a second location.

Secrecy was a practical necessity if you had something to hide; politeness was social chloroform.

Lately it felt like my entire life was one big AITA thread and the answer was always yes, it’s me, I’m the asshole.

“I guess I wouldn’t care,” I said. “As long as I could tell the person really loved me.”

“I hate doctors,” I said. “If I’m like, my sinuses are congested, they’re like, how many calories do you eat a day? If I say I have a UTI, they’re like, you should take the stairs at work instead of the elevator.”

It was exhausting, not wanting things.

“Nice is a bullshit word, anyway,” he said. “Nice is just surface politeness. Screw being nice.”

“So, neighbors who hook up.” “Exactly,” I said. “It’s like friends with benefits, but less of a commute.”

“Fuck treadmills. If I’m running it better be because the Sunrise Slayer is after me.”