Us vs. the Apocalypse
Title: Fishing
Word Count: 316
Crossposted: HERE at runaway-tales
“Hey Aura?”
“Mmm?” I asked, turning a page in my book.
“Whatcha doin?”
“I’m fucking fishing, Mason.”
“Oh yeah?” He leaned over me, blocking the light from the window, bending so far over his nose touches mine. He smelled like cinnamon and cigarettes, a combination that would be disgusting on just about any other human being but always managed to be tolerable, if not pleasurable, on him. “Catch anything good?”
“In about five seconds I’m going to catch your balls with my brace,” I told him, waving the wrist-splint warningly, “unless you get out of my light.”
“Pfft, like you can move that fast,” he mocked, though I heard him shuffle just a little, putting the arm of the sofa I was resting against between us. Rolling my eyes, I reached up to shove his head away from mine and went back to my book. “You’re boring,” he whined.
“You’re annoying,” I shot back.
“And you’re... stupid.”
Slapping my book against my chest, I twisted onto my side and peered at him around the edge of the sofa, finding him sitting on one of the collapsing plastic chairs beside me.
“Seriously?” I asked. “What, are we twelve again?”
“Maybe!” He lifted his mud-crusted boots and thumped them onto the sofa right next to my head, flaking dirt and dead grass onto my shoulder. “Whatcha gonna do about it?” he asked.
I glared at him for a moment, cocking my jaw to one side, then swung my good out and grabbed the leg of his chair. Before he could put his feet down, I yanked as hard as I could and sent him flailing onto his back with a loud crash. Grinning smugly, I rolled onto my back and cracked open my book again.
“Oh, you fucking cheap-ass woman...” he moaned from the floor.
“Baby, you haven’t even begun to see me play cheap.”
Word Count: 316
Crossposted: HERE at runaway-tales
“Hey Aura?”
“Mmm?” I asked, turning a page in my book.
“Whatcha doin?”
“I’m fucking fishing, Mason.”
“Oh yeah?” He leaned over me, blocking the light from the window, bending so far over his nose touches mine. He smelled like cinnamon and cigarettes, a combination that would be disgusting on just about any other human being but always managed to be tolerable, if not pleasurable, on him. “Catch anything good?”
“In about five seconds I’m going to catch your balls with my brace,” I told him, waving the wrist-splint warningly, “unless you get out of my light.”
“Pfft, like you can move that fast,” he mocked, though I heard him shuffle just a little, putting the arm of the sofa I was resting against between us. Rolling my eyes, I reached up to shove his head away from mine and went back to my book. “You’re boring,” he whined.
“You’re annoying,” I shot back.
“And you’re... stupid.”
Slapping my book against my chest, I twisted onto my side and peered at him around the edge of the sofa, finding him sitting on one of the collapsing plastic chairs beside me.
“Seriously?” I asked. “What, are we twelve again?”
“Maybe!” He lifted his mud-crusted boots and thumped them onto the sofa right next to my head, flaking dirt and dead grass onto my shoulder. “Whatcha gonna do about it?” he asked.
I glared at him for a moment, cocking my jaw to one side, then swung my good out and grabbed the leg of his chair. Before he could put his feet down, I yanked as hard as I could and sent him flailing onto his back with a loud crash. Grinning smugly, I rolled onto my back and cracked open my book again.
“Oh, you fucking cheap-ass woman...” he moaned from the floor.
“Baby, you haven’t even begun to see me play cheap.”