Needle
Boys.
He's bouncing his leg again, she can see from the corner of her eye. His gaze is fixed languidly at the television, spouting some nonsense about baseball and Babe Ruth being an alien.
"You don't have to prove anything, you know." He says just as lazily as he flips the channel. She loses her concentration for a moment and pricks herself, for the nth time in half an hour.
She scoffed, or scoffed as best as she could under the circumstances; it had dug deeper this time, and while of denying it she simply resorted to sucking on her thumb.
"I'm not trying to prove anything."
"Suit yourself." The channel was now broadcasting one of those cooking shows, and the dish involved fried locusts and lemon sauce.
She sighed, slightly irked, and focused once again on the material she was so close to tearing with her bare hands.
Stupid him and his stupid sport-inclination. Stupid him for stupidly getting his jersey torn in that stupid soccer game. Stupid him for laughing at her suggestion that she'll fix it. Stupid him for undermining her feminine capabilities.
And stupid her for falling for his stupidity.
"FUCK!" She screeched upon the sharp little point making contact with her skin again. Damn her attention span, or lack thereof.
"Fine!" She stood up, threw the jersey on the floor, and stomped on it for good measure. "I give up!
"Make your mum sew it all up for all I care! Ugh!"
Just as she proceeded to storm off in search of a lifetime's supply of bandages, he spoke again, voice muffled by the crackles of the potato chips he was currently chewing. Barbecue flavored, she could smell it in the air.
"It's okay, babe, I have two other jerseys back home." Crackle, crackle, and toss in an irritating crunch.
Oh, she was gonna crunch him, all right.
"You don't have to prove anything, you know." He says just as lazily as he flips the channel. She loses her concentration for a moment and pricks herself, for the nth time in half an hour.
She scoffed, or scoffed as best as she could under the circumstances; it had dug deeper this time, and while of denying it she simply resorted to sucking on her thumb.
"I'm not trying to prove anything."
"Suit yourself." The channel was now broadcasting one of those cooking shows, and the dish involved fried locusts and lemon sauce.
She sighed, slightly irked, and focused once again on the material she was so close to tearing with her bare hands.
Stupid him and his stupid sport-inclination. Stupid him for stupidly getting his jersey torn in that stupid soccer game. Stupid him for laughing at her suggestion that she'll fix it. Stupid him for undermining her feminine capabilities.
And stupid her for falling for his stupidity.
"FUCK!" She screeched upon the sharp little point making contact with her skin again. Damn her attention span, or lack thereof.
"Fine!" She stood up, threw the jersey on the floor, and stomped on it for good measure. "I give up!
"Make your mum sew it all up for all I care! Ugh!"
Just as she proceeded to storm off in search of a lifetime's supply of bandages, he spoke again, voice muffled by the crackles of the potato chips he was currently chewing. Barbecue flavored, she could smell it in the air.
"It's okay, babe, I have two other jerseys back home." Crackle, crackle, and toss in an irritating crunch.
Oh, she was gonna crunch him, all right.
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