Pieces of Summer

“He’s running his business over the phone for the most part. He’s waiting on you to come back too. They’re both miserable, Mika.”

I close my eyes, trying to figure out where this went wrong. None of this was supposed to hurt them worse. This was supposed to make their lives better.

“Don’t make me feel worse,” I whisper pleadingly.

“Shit. Sorry. I’m not trying to. I just don’t want to lie. You’re missed, Mika. They don’t see you as their burden. They actually seem really lost without you.”

My chest starts to ache, and I stare at the blank screen of the TV on my wall.

“And Chase… Can I please tell you about him?”

“No,” I say firmer.

She groans but doesn’t press the issue.

“Well, they’re all still looking for you,” she grumbles. “I hate lying. Sadly, I must be really good at it because no one suspects me. And Chuck is good at it too.”

“I’m sorry you have to—”

“What’s the matter, slut? Not able to find a dick big enough to fit in that canyon you call a pussy these days?” an elderly woman’s voice cuts in.

“Fuck you, hag. At least I don’t need a bottle of lube to smear on my dried up walls. It’s like the Penderson Desert in that beast.”

Ah. Mrs. Penderson is apparently around. I guess Whit is sitting outside her apartment again.

“At least my vagina still holds a dick. Does yours even feel anything anymore?” Mrs. Penderson shoots back. “Or does he have to spin circles just to catch more than air.”

After putting the phone on speaker, I get up to grab a drink. These sessions always take a while.

“Gah, lay off the excessive douching! You smell like you’ve been marinating in vinegar for too long. If a cucumber got shoved in there, it would come back out a pickle,” Whit groans.

“You smell like an abandoned Easter egg hunt inside that massive orgy hole. I guess the eggs rotted when they couldn’t be found inside that wallowed-out abyss.”

“Do you even know what a normal pussy looks like anymore? Or does your overgrown bush block the view? Need Edward Scissorhands to landscape for you? Or should we call the chainsaw guys in?”

“At least I don’t shave mine and make it look like something that happened after a chainsaw massacre! Right out of a horror film.”

Rolling my eyes, I open a bottle of water. How do they know what kind of lady-scaping each other has?

“There’s nothing horrifying besides your unkempt, 1970’s porno forest. I wax, bitch. It takes a real set of ovaries to do that. And my pussy is beautiful.”

“Yeah, it takes a real woman to make her vagina look like a little girl’s. You should worry about the kind of man that gets turned on by that.”

Frowning, I actually look down my underwear at my own smooth skin. Brazilian waxes are totally in right now, damn it. And I found a place that takes walk-ins and doesn’t even bother giving you an estimated time frame.

Then I roll my eyes again—this time at myself. Somehow I let myself get sucked into the ridiculousness. Even my silent participation is embarrassing.

“Just worry about the kind of man who gets turned on after you take your bra off. Any guy who wants to wrestle with those Tales From The Crypt tits is a fetish freak or something. Do your nipples rot off after the first century?”

“Fuck you, asshole licker.”

“Fuck you, wrinkly ball lover.”

“Did you get my meds?”

“Yeah, I was waiting out here for you.” The rustling of paper has me biting back a smile. “I even got you a couple extra tubes of lube. You’re welcome.”

“Drop dead, cum guzzler,” Mrs. Penderson grumbles.