The Hating Game

by Sally Thorne

Books were, and always would be, something a little magic and something to respect.

Shakespeare is their pinup boy.

I could identify individual librarians by the sound their shoes made as they moved up each aisle.

I was such a little book nerd.

We both work fast and have reputations for being Finishers—you

I should mention that the ultimate aim of all our games is to make the other smile, or cry. It’s something like that. I’ll know when I win.

I’m sure he only fornicates with Amazons.

Oh lord. Concern.

I guess it’s true that I’m always observing, listening, and collecting trivia. But not for any nefarious purpose. It’s mainly because I’m a lonely loser.

Joshua is glaring at me with angry eyebrows. I use my brainwaves to transmit an insult to him, which he receives and pulls himself up straight.

Joshua and I both do electric-shock jolts in our seats.

Joshua’s boss. He’d have to do everything I say, including treating me with some respect. I am at risk of wetting my pants right about now.

She hates him deeply. She’s my kind of lady.

“She’s little and cute. No one hates little cute people.”

The plight of the little humans. There is no dignity for us in this oversize world.

Lick mine and I will definitely lick yours.

If this is what his car smells like, imagine his bed. Good idea. Imagine his bed.

The look of shocked surprise on his face is magnificent. I want to commission a portrait artist to capture it in oils, so I can pass it down to future generations. It. Is. Priceless.

This man is looking at me like he does not hate me. It’s bizarre.

I want to scrunch up that T-shirt into a bowl and eat it with a dessert spoon.

Anything painful or cruel will have to get through him before it has any chance of touching me.

I love you, wall. What a good wall.

Each laugh gusts from him in a husky, breathless rush, something he can no longer hold in, and it’s as addictive to me as the taste of his mouth or the smell of his skin.

His amazing laugh is something I need now.

hard and hair. Now I’m sweating more.

Wild little farm girl.

His mouth, well. It’d fit me just about everywhere.

I wish I lived near a store like that; maybe I wouldn’t eat so much macaroni and cheese.

My heart is glowing in my chest like a bulb, flashing brighter with each movement of his lips.

How strange to imagine him putting my tiny folded scrap in his pocket and bringing it home.

I notice my Post-it note with the kiss on it stuck to the fridge and point at it. He shrugs. “You put so much hard work into it. Seemed a shame to waste it.”

If he wasn’t here I’d read his electricity bills.

The art of holding hands is underrated and it’s embarrassing how much this simple act has me nearly breathless.

Goose bumps scatter my skin. I press my thighs together and accidentally make a little pony-snort.

“I’m hungry and I have no food. And I haven’t got any tea, and my apartment is cold. And I’m bored.” “What a very sad little life.”

I haven’t seen Josh all day, and I miss him.

He couldn’t imagine you with anyone but himself. The doors snap open and there he is.

I notice he has a little whiteboard with a weekly meal plan. He’s such a freak.

I imagine him in the shower with his bar of soap like the little perv I am.

I feel it in my tiny undersized brunette bones.

Can’t he have a flaw?

“I want to know what’s going on in your brain. I want to juice your head like a lemon.”

If this is what his holiday daydream is like, I wouldn’t survive his bedroom.

My eyes badly want to drop below his waist, but because I am a lady I resist.

Danny is a genius. Nothing is more believable than the truth.

Go by yourself like a big loser.”

No one can kiss me like he does, and it’s more proof the world is unfair.

How’d you get so small?” “I shrank in the wash.”

Any girl would have an erotic dream after you said that to her. Even one who hated your guts.”

He kneels down between my feet. A nice boy, kneeling beside his bed, about to say his prayers.