Can't Say Goodbye

by Eden Finley

Actually, a lot of people next to Prescott appear less fortunate-looking than usual. It’s like how those car mirrors say objects are closer than they appear. Prescott should have his own label: objects close to me are better-looking than they appear.

“I’ve never wanted to punch you harder.” “Lies. I know how to be really annoying.”

Will I come, or will my dick be bitten off? Hard to say. It’s like extreme sports for sex.

his tall frame standing toward the very back with his arms folded, sunglasses covering his face, and his resting bitch face in place.

He always looks so serious and stoic, and one of my favorite things used to be making him lose his composure.

“If I eat any more, I’ll go into a food coma and won’t be able to move to get my fuckening on.”

I didn’t know it was possible to do laps in the Gulf of Mexico, but he’s made it a thing. I’m tempted to go out there and join him now that I’ve had a chance to wake up properly. I could sneak up on him and pretend to be a shark. But I still have coffee left, and as much as pretend drowning Kit sounds fun, I don’t want to be sucked into his orbit again.

instead of enjoying both of them, instead of reveling in being wrapped in their arms, I’m drowning in anticipated loneliness.

it’s because they’ve decided this one big fucked-up found family of queerdos is in need of quality time.

“You could talk to them and see how they feel about being in a permanent thing. Hey, in that situation, who’s the bun and who’s the hot dog? Is there two hot dogs or two buns?”

I already know this could go one of two ways: it’ll either be an embarrassing shitshow or a humiliating clusterfuck.