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Barbara left her boredom behind like she left just a trace too many bloodied fingerprints and her obedient kisses and the good girl panties Jim liked so much on the bedroom floor.
There’s a lot to be tired of, out there in the law-abiding world, subsisting on fear and appearances and doing what’s expected of you, what the fuck did she ever like about art in the first place, anyway. If Barbara had ever been a proper girl, the one she was raised to be, she’d have become a wife, a quiet one, slightly too many drinks to get through the long afternoons, popping valiums like candy, a drugged weight in the bedroom gazing at the ceiling for year after year after year.
It’s better like this: picking something she wants and then taking it, digging her fingers into it, and never letting go, not once, not even for an instant.
Renee was one of those mistakes you keep making because the drugs are like hey, let’s do this one again, it’ll be better this time, but it never is, and she was running scared for most of the clusterfuck with Jim, but Tabitha’s something different, like dragging lit matches down your fingertips and sweet sucking on the blisters.
Tabitha is a biting laugh and shifting skin beneath Barbara’s hands, and she never tells her no or yes or perhaps; she’s a dance party and your bloody feet the morning after, and Barbara never wants her to stop, not ever.