Bottle

Flowery

She peered through the plastic, the swirls that the water has reduced reality to, and the little flecks of dead plant floating around it.

"Uh, what's this for?" She nudged him, the penance for coming in late.

He didn't stop chewing on the eraser of his pencil, so he spoke from the side of his mouth. "We're supposed to, like, write about it. The flowers in the water bottle. Exercise for today."

Her expression conveyed a nice, blunt little 'WTF.' Her features could have formed the letters, a bit of eyebrow there and some lip here.

"Fuck. I hate English class. It's a fucking water bottle filled with torn up flowers and stagnant water. What's there to fucking write about?"

He shrugged. "Beats me," he says, though the shrug said that just as well.

"Maybe you can put 'fuck' after every other word to make your essay longer," announced a calm, disinterested tone from the front of the classroom.

That shut her up. He snickered. She elbowed his nose. He dropped his pencil. She stepped on it. On his finger, too.

So their teacher was a sarcastic old nutcase. He didn't have to be so goddamn obnoxious about it.
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