“I’m just writing to write.” Duke thought to himself. Or so he thought he thought – he was audibly speaking.
“Shit.”
I thought that out loud, didn’t I? he actually thought to himself.
“Hey Duke.” Jenny was her typical annoying self.
Hey Jenny.
With the blank stare of admonishment in full gaze, Duke audibly spoke “Hey Jenny.”
“You know that’s way super annoying, right?”
“You know it’s way super annoying that you say it’s super annoying, right?
“Anyways…”
“Don’t ‘anyways’ me, I can’t help it sometimes.”
“Duke, let’s not argue about your goddamned outermonologia or whateverthefuck it is.”
“Calm your tits, betch!”
Betch was the safe-word. Jenny took a deep breath to compose her self then laughed thinking about that time Duke told her he really wanted to kiss her while they were washing her dog. She thought he meant the dog and Duke had to convince her that her he meant was her, not Lassie. As he knelt there with wild eyes filled with tears, he told her about his condition.
“Okay, Dukey” she let him off the hook. “What are you working on?”
I don’t know. … “Fuck. I don’t know.” Duke now typing every word he was thinking and saying. “I’m just trying to get words on a page – I don’t really care how they look.”
“What do you have so far?”
“Basically just this conversation.”
“Did you write the bit about when you wanted to fuck my dog?”
“THAT’S WHY YOU LAUGHED??”
“YES!” Jenny laughing uncontrollably now as Duke turned beet red before bursting into laughter.
“BETCH!”
“Oh my God! That was the funniest thing that’s ever happened to me.”
I didn’t tell you
“I want to fuck your dog!”
I said
“I want to kiss her!”
and I meant you! It’s the worst fucking thing to happen to me ever in life! Here I am washing your dog with you and I think I think I
“I really want to kiss her.”
The look on your face was like
“Get the fuck away from me, you psycho!”
And all I could do was…
Jenny was in trouble because she stopped breathing about six seconds ago. She was laughing so hard that she was in danger of losing consciousness. Her face was a bright shade of whatever color happens when you mix kale, beets, and avocado in a blender.
…
“Wait, what did I say?” Duke now suffering from uncontrolled sympathetic laughter.
A moment before passing out she snorted a giant gulp of air which only made things worse.
“You just told me ‘I want to … fuck your dog. … I want to kiss her. I really … want to … kiss her. Get away from me … … you fucking psycho!’” The staccato rhythm of her report only served to heighten the humor and sent them into a laughing spasm that lasted nearly five full minutes.
…
“Shit. Sorry. I thought I was telling the story.” Duke now wiping sweat off his forehead and tears from his cheeks.
“Fawk! It’s fine. I don’t know that I’ve ever laughed like that before.”
“Uh. Fine. Whatever. Let’s go do something.”
“Movie?”
“We did a movie the last time, let’s just go for a walk.”
Okay, fine. Duke now standing and putting away his laptop and mouse. “I can’t put words on a page anyway.”
“Hey Dukey.” Jenny now looking down the street as Duke was zipping his faithful red backpack. He bought this red backpack 10 years ago an hour before an important job interview. He liked the red backpack look sported by all the coding bros in Pasadena. He’d wanted to be like them, around them, talk like them. Have friends like them. He’d wanted to be a coding bro and saw the red bropack as this ticket to the cool life. It worked. He should have bought that red bropack sooner because he was able to negotiate a salary 18 percent higher than he was getting paid at the time. He loved that bropack, but it was starting to show its age. As he grabbed the plastic lift handle he could see the old stretch marks in the canvas. He saw the weathered face of the front leather pocket. The shoulder-straps had torn some cartilage along way only to be sewn up by Dr. Shaky hands. The old bropack’s life was measured in dog-years and was overdue for retirement. But, like his father, the pack was still ages away from retirement. The four laptops that had called the pack home were much luckier now enjoying the good life resting on the shelf next to the broken Keurig. “Let’s go get Starbucks.”
“I’m down.” Duke now swinging the pack gently to scoop the left side shoulder-strap while his right was reaching through and around gripping at the point of his bad stitching effort.
“Yay! I love the butter-milk latte.”
You know there’s no actual butter in the drink, right?
