Translated by Basile Lebret
Monica shoos the big emerald green fly with a sleight of hand. The Calliphoridae flies away before coming back to the cup of tea.
Dear Diary,
It is a pleasure to come back, to confess my emotions and my wildest dreams, as if you were an intimate and faithful friend.
You know that today is a very special day. The first Valentine’s Day Brandon and I are going to spend together.
He’s watching TV at the moment, lying on our bed. He doesn’t mind that you and I share secrets I withhold from everyone, including him, but he’s always divinely understanding. If I left you upon this very table, Dear Diary, he wouldn’t read you out of discretion and sheer respect for my privacy, I am sure of it.
This might be his biggest quality: his discretion. It makes me love him even more. On this symbolic date, I cannot resist telling you, once again, how we met as I twist and twirl this memory in my mind as I would licorice on my tongue.
In the bedroom, Brandon is hypnotized by Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, his favorite show. Monica lets him watch it on replay. The young man is apathetic towards the upcoming Valentine’s Day. He is more of an introvert, calm, the opposite of his girlfriend, Monica. The small brunette tornado that’s been whirling all morning to set up for this 14th of February.
The first time I saw Brandon, I knew it was him. The frozen goods aisle of the supermarket was a surprising meeting spot. It’s funny, all the while I prowled the flower shop, the cinema, the gym, the ice cream store, the bookstore, my workplace. It happened right between ice cream cones and lasagnas. It was written; our planets were meant to collide.
It might have been a sign, he was buying tenderloin, my favorite meat – eating an animal has me drowning in depthless guilt. I am weak, Diary – I saw him before he saw me, and I did not approach him. I can be so shy around strangers. Now my timidness has been blown away. I am a new woman ever since he came into my life.
Come on, Moncia, back to the tenderloin!
After seven meetups at this exact spot, at the same exact time – it’s funny how men have habits, routines – I finally decided to dive in. And it was in the underground parking lot of the supermarket, with a beating heart, that I confessed my love to him. He surrendered. I felt so disturbed, I was blushing… coming onto him took a lot from me. But you know what they say: “One has to take a chance on love.”
***
One month earlier,
Brandon, twenty-eight, an executive at a bank, works sixty hours a week and plans his schedule tightly. His life is organized, his activities recurring, his days optimized. Every Tuesday night, he buys frozen food at Picard for the entire week: pizzas for the weekend, balanced meals for every other evening, chopped mushrooms, and a tenderloin. He cooks the meat on Sunday morning, solely for himself. Then he survives on the leftovers for the following days. The veal covered in full cream reminds him of family dinners. He already knew the whole recipe by age four. This culinary tradition became more precious since his father died of advanced cancer last year, right before his mom’s tragic accident, two months later. Those back-to-back tragedies deprived him of his family. The weekly tenderloin is his remembrance.
As he closes his car trunk, the young man looks around. Although he’s a sturdy guy of almost six foot – he frequents the gym on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday: CrossFit and rowing machine – he doesn’t feel tranquil in the badly-lit parking lot. Even more so because he always wears a high-value wristwatch when he exits the office. Someone might attack and steal it from him, and his wallet, even his brand-new car: a convertible BMW series 4
“Mister, please?” says a childish voice.
She’s so tiny, he almost missed her. Two cars down from his own car, a small five-foot tall brunette is trying to close her trunk. The hatch is too high for her. This girl reminds Brandon of someone; has he met her before? But short girls never grab his attention. Thin blondes are more his type, mannequin style.
Brandon sighs. He’s house-trained; he’s going to lend a hand.
Dear Diary,
The first evening with Brandon was just magical. I felt like Cinderella with her prince. The bouquet of red roses was such a delicate detail. My tiny heart beat wildly in my chest. And the candied cherry: The big box of chocolates he hid behind his back.
I remember the first movie we caught together. Fifty shades darker. Since then, we watched it time and again. On this evening, Brandon and I sat side by side on the sofa. The flash from the TV cutting through the obscurity. His pretty hand lay safely on his lap. Mine did too. I wore my beautiful black Fumetti dress – you see which one I’m talking about, don’t you? Our knees and pinkies were mere millimeters apart. The heat from our bodies felt so close. I cannot recall who made the first move; our fingers touched, and we just fondled through the rest of the movie.
***
Some Hours Later,
The stink shakes Brandon awake. Strained neck, as if held within a vise, he fights to raise his head. Something around his throat prevents him from doing so.
He wants to swallow. Vomit comes up instead. Dilated nostrils as wide as sails, exorbitated eyes, he’s subdued by the pressure needing to come out. The contents of his stomach are trying to escape through his mouth, his eyes, his ears as would water on a sinking submarine. It finally recesses in an acidic retreat.
His smell and taste buds awake, and the message they transmit to their brain is akin to It’s horrible. I want to die. The young man’s senses scream for help, drowned in rot, blood, metal, plastic.
The thing stuck in his mouth that prevents him from yelling is neither a handkerchief, nor a ball of paper, nor leather. At least none of these alone. It might be a blend of cotton, plastic, and glue. Brandon’s brain adds all of these textures before handing him the result in a flash: It’s a used pad RAAAAAH, someone has stuck in his mouth. The menstruation expands on his tongue, against his palate, mixing with his saliva.
Two years ago, Brandon had a girlfriend. Lucie, a real blonde bombshell, and an extraordinary lay. He still had to find excuses not to go to her flat when she was on her period. The content of her bathroom garbage bin deterred him. It’s a fact, some people like the smell of their own sweat. Lucie was like that, but with the scent of her menstrual blood; she only wore pads that she’d thrown away without embalming or folding them. The stink of rot coming from the bin with brownish-red blood clots on top was morbid.
With a hiccup that he has to swallow, Brandon tries to fight against his restraints.
He is totally impeded. Panic merges with his disgust of the dirty pad, then he realizes his strained neck is caused by a brace that reduces his line of sight to a mere sixty degrees.
Yelling to be set free? The profit to cost margin is not in his favor. To produce more than a muffled sound, he would have to swallow even more of the menstrual magma stuck to his tongue.
Exhausted and drained of adrenaline, Brandon pauses on the seat to which he is bound. His ribs hurt like hell. He guesses he was drugged, his thoughts are hazy; he must fight to keep his eyes open.
A woman sings along with some stupid pop song somewhere behind him.
***
Hours Ago,
Contrary to the small brunette, getting a hold of the hatch poses no problem to Brandon thanks to his regular height.
This is the second Monica needed. With one taser zap to the rib, she shocks her white knight and pushes him in the trunk of her SUV. Before he understands he’s being kidnapped by a copycat of the Bride of Chucky, he’s lost consciousness, and the hatch closes on his liberty.
His frozen goods are beginning to exude moisture within the trunk of his own lost BMW.
A lone woman must know how to make do. Monica jumps to the hatch and pockets her taser. She loves this toy, a smart invention, that balances out the odds when a small frame like hers has to go against bigger builds.
For sheer safety, since she knows Brandon exercises regularly – she has noted his training hours at the gym – she set the voltage on max. The vendor assured her that even with half the size, a regular assailant would not wake for hours, and He-Man would need to change his pants. He advised against it, such usage could cause cardiac arrest to an unknowing victim. The gun shop owner was named Fabien. His name appeared on his name tag. He was alright. Early forties but buffed and sexy. They had both laughed at his soiled underwear joke. Monica thought that, maybe, she could come back for him.
***
Dear Diary,
I will always remember this first night. I’m not like those loose women who have sex with any guy that crosses their path. Me, I’m waiting for love with a big L. But we live in the 21st century, and I think purity lies within one’s heart, not between one’s legs. I believe one can have sex with a boy if one knows deep down that he is the one. And I was absolutely certain of it, when Brandon and I went at it on that very first night.
***
His bladder is way past being simply full. Unable to hold it in, he soils himself while closing his eyes in shame. The hot liquid soaks his pants
Brandon could kill not to ever have to open his eyes again and distinguish even fifty centimeters of this mad woman’s flat. Not to see her, as she crosses his sight and smiles like the manic nymphomaniac that she is. That’s how he discovers the equipment she’s spread on a table in front of him. One drill, one kettle, some kitchen yarn, condoms, and one big-ass needle. All of it neatly set up atop a pale green tablecloth with flowery imprint.
The wireless frill is positioned at the exact perpendicular to the corner of the table. Its mesh appears brand new, too shiny to be true, as if it had just gotten out of a dishwasher.
Brandon takes note of the absence of any mugs or tea bags by the kettle.
Despite his affinity for deep calculus, the young man’s brain cannot compute such a disparate array of items. He still gets that he’s in deep shit and that the shame of having pissed himself should be the least of his worries.
As he tries anew to free himself from the bolted-to-the-ground chair and its straps, the crazy woman – who still hasn’t peeped a single word – begins a striptease, just for him.
Livid and on the brink of passing out, the young man forcefully closes his eyes to avoid the spectacle. He’s gonna push through, he’s going to concentrate and find a way to escape. And the first thing he’s gonna do when he succeeds is smash in the face of this spawn of Hannibal Lecter and Betty Boop. Right after, he will spit out the ignominy melting in his mouth, and then he will gargle rubbing alcohol for hours. Then and only then, will he call for reinforcements: police and psychiatric emergencies.
A stab from a two pronged fork to his ribs brings him back to earth. Bare-chested, with her bra between her clenched teeth, the brunette stares at him with disapproval. She presses the tip of a cold iron on her forced guest’s ball sack, hard enough for him to feel like kebob. She reprises her undressing once she’s certain she has his utter and utmost attention.
The most erotic moment – I’m blushing just writing these word – was the sponge bath he requested from me. OMG, you’re the only one I can tell about this…
I believe in love, and sex is love. What happens between two people meant for each other cannot be dirty, can it?
Since the horny crazy lady requires it, he keeps his sight on her. Yet the young man’s mind is elsewhere, trying to pry open the knots around his wrists. In vain… Brandon is up against the real stuff, either taken from some psychiatric ward or a hardcore BDSM dungeon.
When she finally stops her obscene dance and closes in on him, naked as sin, he quits. As she maintains her grip on her fork, his guardian begins to travel his body in search of his apricot. The red lipstick-wearing brunette pinches them through his soiled pants and checks whether they are hard and firm before letting them go with a face.
She leaves his sight for a bit and returns armed with a pair of sewing scissors. The young man closes his eyes, trying to find comfort in some candid landscape.
The cold blades pass his nostrils and plunge towards his trouser’s fly. The sharpest of the two pierces through the Italian fabric, a mix of silk and polyester, with a tearing sound, before cutting it all the way through. Monica doesn’t seem to care. Brandon will never wear those pants ever again. In its frenzy, the sharp metal stabs the upper part of his thigh. Brandon swallows more of the decaying period by surprise. A drop of blood emerges between his dark blond pubic hair.
Brandon tries harder to picture a beach on the other side of the world, repeating this mantra: Nothing can touch me, I am safe.
The scissor skids through his boxer shorts. The blade’s cold touch tears him from an imaginary woman’s embrace, from his sandy beach; his testicles shrink as ripened passion fruit.
This time, Brandon refuses to open his eyes. With a bit of “luck” – big quotation marks there because he hates the idea – the crazy woman will only try to rape him. And will let him go once she sees he’s flaccid. Maybe she’s deranged and celibate, in the search for love. The rationale is torturous – hurtful – scary but plausible.
Tears rain down the young man’s face.
The brunette is now kneeling between his calves; the peculiar sensation leaves no space for doubt… she is licking at him like a goat would with a block of salt. Speaking of salt - the fuck! It’s disgusting – how many times has he pissed himself? He doesn’t know for how long she’s held him captive, but it must smell like black pudding down there. Not like pink tenderloin.
Dear Diary,
You’re in the know, I have only done it once prior, with you know who… But I’ve learned what a man lusts for through novels and films. I know this is how you keep them still… by doing stuff to them.
I’ve got to admit, I think I like it – I’m blushing writing this. My vigor and desire doubled once I heard his moans. I wanted him to know how much I fancy him. That I was the one he was waiting for. That, even if I lack experience, I can be as gifted as his slutty exes. Plus, I always liked popsicles. I know how to take my time. That’s until I get bored and bite to pop the cherry.
Brandon moans in distress and disgust because, against his best wishes, he’s hard. He wants to die. And quick. His priorities are all messed up. His brain longs for death, his body yearns for this to end, and his dick wants to get sucked.
After the caprine tongue shot, the crazy woman has turned to the tactic of the toilet plunger – the human suction cup. She sticks it at the back of her mouth and sucks on it as if she could extract chantilly. And she might just get something out of it if she keeps going like this! But every time it’s coming – and Brandon is only waiting for it to end, to be free – she pauses, and the pressure boils down. Here she goes again: this time on buccal laundry mode.
Another pause. The disheveled brunette comes up to his ear:
“I love you, candy cane. I’m going to take good care of you. Forever.”
The young man stares at her in wild horror. He quits. He disconnects. He comes.
***
14th February,
Dear Diary,
It’s already been four weeks since Brandon and I became a thing. He came into my life never to get away.
Now, he and I are just like Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie – like it should’ve stayed. We are Brandnica. Or Monicon. I think he doesn’t mind how we’re called: All he cares about is my pleasure, and I prefer Brandnica. We are one…
When I tell you he never left our little nest, it is really true. I think he cannot live without me. Do you understand, Dear Diary, what it means? How deep his love must be?
I’m so happy… I didn’t think I would feel like this again after Jason’s tragic passing – I’m sorry, I’m dampening you with my tears, your pages will wrinkle. I’ll hand dry you later. Promise–
I shall move on. I cried. I feel better now.
Yes, Jason. He broke my heart when he left forever. Yes, I know… “Forever” is unfair because when someone loves, be they dead or alive, it’s for life. And even if he’s gone, he remains inside my heart.
Luckily, I’ve got souvenirs: the photos. Even though the bed sheets have a weird hue in the pictures – they’re a bilious green – I’m always fond of the one where he sleeps bare-chested, in our bed, with his awesome tribal dragon tattoo for all to see. And wow… look at his beach blonde surfer hair. He took my heart in his tumbling wave. He and I were Jasonica. I never liked Monicason.
The brunette stops scribbling to squash a maggot on the corner of the page with her pink manicured nails. She then checks her lipstick with the same finger before picking up the pen again.
After Jason, Brandon’s arrival in my life is like a second chance, a sign from God that I can still believe in love and the natural beauty of the world.
***
One month ago,
Brandon has lost consciousness again. He doesn’t understand the passing of time anymore. Since he is thirsty, he must have been bound to the chair for at least two days. He didn’t leave his spot even once.
The psycho nymphomaniac raped him six times. That he counted; because every time she tried something new. The last time she went for the reverse cowgirl. He doesn’t know how but she was able to get him hard. He suspects she’s adding blue pills to whatever drugs she injects into his body when he’s out. And she comes every time… He’d prefer losing his mind.
The pad has almost disintegrated inside his mouth. The weird magma obstructs his throat rendering his breathing laborious. Worse, this liquid horror has now freed a small passage for his vomit. When he now throws up, his stomach’s acidic contents mix with the putrid bodily fluid on his tongue.
Drugs and dehydration make him stupid. His lamentable state prevents him from being disgusted. Whiffs of putrefied flesh that the fridge releases every time Monica opens or closes it. With his back turned, he can only guess its insides: the blonde head of a man lies on a plate. It smiles for Monica at every passage.
***
14th February,
Monica is doing her thing while singing along to Every Breath You Take.
Dear Diary,
Can you believe it? It’s our first Valentine’s Day together.
You know me, I’m a perfectionist and as Gran used to say: “The Devil is in the details.” I am going to cook Brandon the best dish of his life.
And I don’t mind if he doesn’t want to help. I think I prefer to do it myself anyway. This way I’ll also get all the credit when he’ll be enjoying my lovely meals.
With her small waist, her taste for black robes and red belts, and her frenzied little arms, Monica is a busy bee in her putrid flat. A black widow treading her web.
Everything in its place and a place for everything.
Here, she slightly turns the lamp by the sofa to better present the dragon tribal tattoo. The skin is turning grey and decaying in some parts. Tanner really is a job, mind you.
There she cleans the canned goods. Those damned flies die literally everywhere!
The brunette shakes a glass jar within resides Jason’s sex blown up by the vinegar. The sausage has taken on the green hue of a pickle.
Oh, I forgot to take the cheese out. It’ll be a loss if it doesn’t release its full flavor before our consumption.
Brandon did not ask me out to a restaurant tonight, I think it is a wise choice. I too, prefer to stay home with my lover. This way, we can cuddle whenever we want. An impossibility in those prude establishments.
I bought a lot to prepare for our feast – I’ll tell you about this arc later on – a bouquet of red roses and the same box of chocolates he gifted me on our first night. I really believe in anniversaries, it is the lubricant – if I may – to every couple.
On our Valentine’s Day menu: asparagus. You know what they say about what this vegetable does to a man’s manhood, Dear Diary. Yes, I hear you. I’m also taking a risk because asparagus tends to smell as it exits.
Whatever? We’ll have asparagus, some Munster, and – you guessed it – tenderloin! with a foie gras sauce.
This said, Dear Diary, I’m feeling kinky. I have every right, haven’t I? It is Valentine’s Day. I have an idea for whatever sauce will be left over. You know how much I love foie gras. And –Damn, I feel hot just telling you this – there is another tenderloin I’d like to cover with it. It’ll go really well alongside his paupiettes.
How feisty am I?
See, you I think Brandon will need some help to put up his tie. You know how much I fancy him staying classy.
Brandon sits docile. Monica does everything since he moved in: grocery shopping, house cleaning, evening cooking, and table service.
Truth is, he ate his last tenderloin some three weeks ago. He will never swallow anything else, except for Monica’s tongue. She crams it down his throat every time she passes him.
This time, the young woman finds her furry friend on her lover’s lap.
“Church, leave daddy alone! You have a bowl full of dry food in the kitchen. If you keep gnawing at him, I’ll have you put down.”
Monica laughs at her joke. She would tear her own arm off before hurting Church.
The ten-pound Maine coon with a grey pelt and fiery eyes, doesn’t flinch as she threatens him. His mistress has to softly press on his muzzle for him to stop munching on Brandon’s index finger.
She locks him in the kitchen, the cat ignores his bowl and begins his toilet, cleaning the blood-soaked fur around his nose, and then his butthole. The taste of putrid human flesh on his tongue doesn’t bother him. He is a feline after all, a predator. Going ass to mouth is natural to him.
***
“How comfy it is to be just the two of us? Do you know how much I love you, tiny Brandy?”
Monica is sitting on her fiancé’s lap, her back to the plates. In between smooches to dead Brandon, she sometimes picks up an asparagus.
He turned her into a bitch in heat. This wouldn’t be the words she’d use in her diary, but having Brandon at home skyrocketed her libido.
The brunette gives him a French kiss like in the movies.
The young man, neck still stuck in the strap, stares dead eyed at a painting on the wall. It’s a portrait of a clown, probably made by a psychopath in a cell on death row as he busied his mind and tried to make some money before the barbecue finale.
The young executive’s eyes are glossy; a milky white that’s used as a launch pad by the frenzied flies all around. Happy as Spring breakers.
As Monica grazes his neck with her pink fingernails, she rips out a handful of hair. Atop her lover’s head resides a hole, exactly the size of a power drill. It was haphazardly sown and healed to look like a concussion.
The procedure wasn’t the success Monica hoped for. On her second try, she thought she’d do better. She has now crossed the slow cooking, with the help of a condom full of boiling water, off her list since Brandon’s brain ceased functioning. This is not the way to make him entirely hers.
Since plastic is magic and life’s too, she still finds Brandon all right. What’s more, he was her ultimate trial… She doesn’t plan on loving anyone else – at the moment.
Monica chirps against the cadaver’s torso like a dove through mating season. She’s already excited, but since it is Valentine’s Day – a codified event – she’s waiting for dessert. It’s out of the question for Brandon to even think she might be a naughty girl.
“Brandnica is going to take a pause after the cheese, alright? I’m going to fix my makeup and write a bit. You wait for me, honey?”
“…”
“You’re sometimes too silent, love. But I guess it’s wonderful since I can be such a blabbermouth. We fit perfectly!’
*sighs* This meal is too copious. I’m eating like a foodie. I’m lucky Brandon’s affection is unconditional and not at all linked to my weight. It’s the inner me he loves and not just the carnal shell. It is the truest, the purest, and the biggest love. He’s so cute, he agrees with everything, Dear Diary, and I’m going to spend my life with this man. YES!
But still…
You know that my relationship with Jason ended abruptly, so I’m wondering about Brandon. I don’t want to make the same mistakes.
Is it healthy to idolize your companion, to desire even his flaws? He loves me this way but, even though I’m crazy about him, will I always be? Maybe, over time, his faults that I find endearing will turn crippling. And maybe one day I’ll forget how much I love him tonight.
But you’re right, Dear Diary! This is why I write down my emotions. This way, through darker days, I’ll be able to read you and rekindle my feelings for him.
Oh my god! Here it is! I want to kiss him again and tell him I love him.
Monica’s lips suck on Brandon’s blackened, swollen tongue. The decaying organ has doubled in size and oozes a bilious orange liquid that smells. To Monica, those smells act like pheromones. The brunette twists her tongue into a ballet cancan and carcass. She is the one leading, and Brandon goes along as she forages with her pink appendage.
Sometimes, the candid girl bites onto the black flesh playfully, she mixes the putrescent fluid with her saliva.
The interior of Brandon’s mouth looks more and more like a week-old stake long past its expiration date. The flies around the couple buzz in ecstasy.
“Oh, honey. That’s okay. You’re tired tonight… it might be all the emotion, don’t worry.”
Past rigor mortis, Brandon’s shaft has become useless to Monica. Since then, she’s been satisfying her needs thanks to the array of plugs on her bedside table. She doesn’t want to hurt him, so she does it alone in the dark while he watches TV in the living room. He might have developed a screen addiction! He’s able to stare at them for entire days.
You know, Dear Diary, for some time I’ve been feeling like Brandon is less… full of life. It troubles me greatly to write it. I’m wondering: Did I become undesirable? Is he the one who grew tired and accustomed? Has he hit this stage when males suffer little problems?
I’m scared he does not fancy me anymore and I think he’s let himself go. I didn’t admit it, Dear Diary, but I think he’s getting fat. After love, I cannot put his belt back on. His belly is all swollen. Is my cuisine too rich? Is it the sedentary lifestyle that’s unkind to him?
And it gives him terrible gas. He sometimes burps. Loudly, I might add. These eructations are so deep and so loud, they seem to come from beneath the depth of hell.
And his skin problems… Yes, Dear Diary, I think it is my fault. I’m not cooking healthily enough. The quality of his derma is deteriorating rapidly and you know I know. It’s my job, isn’t it?
I’m glad Brandon’s a teddy bear. He lets me paint his face. And you know how good I am with foundation.
Oh yes! Now that I think of it! I found some cosmetics on the web, in case makeup wouldn’t be enough. It doesn’t seem legal but if it works, it’s all that matters. I just hope those weren’t tested on animals. Those poor beasts being experimented on solely for aesthetics, it breaks my heart. “Embalming fluid” he must stay handsome, right? Embalming, balm, same thing, right?
Do you see how much I love him? There are no problems, only solutions.
Church uses his mistress’s distraction to enter the living room. Despite his lynx-like size, he’s discreet when it comes to stealing food.
Monica is singing as she prepares some coffee. She’s full of joy because, after this, she and Brandon will have dessert! The chocolate paste is already on the counter. Between the cocoa and her lust for her man, she’s certain she’ll get him up.
The brunette sets both mugs on a tray. Espresso, no sugar, for him, it’ll be better for his figure. One massive éclair for her. Monica’s frothing at the mouth.
The Maine coon attacks a greenish Brandon’s knee, who goes on to burp loudly. When the big cat rips off a bit of tendon, the whole corpse spasms, a deodorant pine tree falls off his right ear and a filet of bile escapes his mouth spilling onto the feline’s fur.
Deep in thought, Monica‘s surprised by an appetite for real berries. And she uses this pause in the dessert to write.
I want a baby, Dear Diary. I want it so much! I don’t know whether it’s hormones or the joy of having found the right man to have one with, but I want one very much. You see… I was preparing the dessert and suddenly I was craving strawberries. It’s a sign, isn’t it?
Even if Brandon’s trying and not succeeding, I have high hopes. And I have an idea I’ll tell you later.
I have to leave you for a bit. My chocolate delicacy’s waiting for me. Once, I was able to fit a whole éclair down my throat and I intend to do it again tonight if only to astonish my lover through buccal prowess.
I’m back.
It was more of a soft muffin than a rock hard éclair. But I know it pleased him and that’s all that matters.
Talking about pleasure, Dear Diary, Brandnica talked and I exposed to him my plan to spice things up. As you can see, I‘ll do anything to maintain our intimacy.
I wrote about it earlier… Last week, an idea came to me in the frozen goods aisle. Every Tuesday, I cross paths with this blonde who’s got dark eyes. She always buys mashed celery and a pot of iced caramel. This week I followed her out of sheer curiosity. I think she might be to Brandon’s taste, you see.
Next Tuesday, I want to muster the courage to ask her to join us. My heart melts at the mere thought of the courage I’ll have to build up, but this confidence is the price of felicity. My meeting with Brandon is proof.
I find her pretty too. Oh my god: No, I cannot tell you I dreamt of her last night... Another time… it’s so embarrassing. Oh shoo! There was caramel and I spread it on her rose bud and I licked it. I tasted almond and sugar and milk on her wonderful tits. I remain a foodie. Even in dreams.
I’ll tell you everything once I’ve talked to her, promise, Dear Diary.
Now, I’ll go on and treat my lover because it’s Valentine’s Day.
See you! Good night!
PS: This craving for a baby, I think about it often, even tonight. There’re so many orphans and sad children in this world… The other day, I saw this poor lil’ thing alone in front of the baked goods in a grocery store. Pink cheeks and all. It was a little girl.
Seeing all the love I have to give, I’ll think about it.
Really.
Like tomorrow.
About the Author: