Things I hate about sally:
- Her pretty smell.
- How I like her breath.
- Coffee.
Thing I like:
- That she's not exactly a she.
It's been a while since anybody made me aware of how twisted I am. In the kitchen I've spilled a drink and now I'm cleaning. Random people come to wish me a better future, trying not to slip on linoleum and soda.
A familiar figure sounds a familiar voice, and I everything I'm holding.
Fuck me, my aunts are hot. If you think that's sick wait till I tell you what I muse about my cousins.
She hands me a gift and leans down to give me a kiss. I'm so spastic I rise to meet her cheek with my skull. I look down for a whole second, and then thank her breasts for the present. Her mouth mumbles something, but I'm not listening. I have a floorful of soda to wipe.
Mom's wearing her famous "this isn't happening" façade. It's famous only to me; only I have the pleasure of witnessing such grimaces. She tries a fit of commands on me to no avail, and then silently ushers herself out. I know what's gonna happen next.
A fat, sexually-deprived aunt will waltz into the kitchen, dragging a scornful attitude and a hundred pounds of fat. She'll see the mess I've done, tell me how upset my mother is, and order me to clean everything up and rejoin whatever circus is cooking up in the living room.
This time it's Aunt Marjorie, wearing a colorful parachute of a dress.
Something along what I've outlined has been shouted my way.
I always figured I'd be the one tossing instructions by this age, not catching them.
I'm with my nose in the ceiling, making a "hell no" face. Fuck you and your relatives. Fuck the commotion in the room next door, fuck all the tasty food you've brought. Fuck the condolences and the understanding expressions. I'd make a better point storming out right about now, but I think I'll stay. Make everybody a little more uncomfortable with my frown and bad manners. Let them all forgive me on account of the occasion.
So I stumble out into the floodlit room, and greet half a dozen very self aware people. Half of them I don't know, the other half I don't really want to, and I make a face to accentuate it.
I push myself through a sea of mourners, drowning their sorrow in delicious treats and alright wine, casually frowning at everyone I meet. I never knew our living room could fit so many people once you strip it off of everything. I wonder about this for a bit, when I feel a hand grazing my back. I probably had some form of goo on my shirt, to go along with my generally unwashed attire. I turn around to greet the considerate stranger with a burst of unkind gestures, stopping midway to realize I was greeting Sally. Her mouth curved into a satisfied grin, to show me she was expecting nothing less than the full verbal treatment, and then making itself into a kiss. Her's was the only one I ever accepted, so I let her lay one on my cheek.
I only see Sally the rest of the day. First we sit on the only comfortable couch left, in my room, where she stares at me until I have something to say. I talk about this and that, nothing of importance or quality, but she seems to listen intently anyway. She recollects some memories of a similar event, then pointing out that while my manners take a leak in the bathroom, we better take a walk.
She's right, of course. Outside we walk until its dark, sometimes in silence, other times sharing a few words.
It's always sharing with her, she never throws words in my face, instead offering them, making me feel like I deserve them and they're not just a favor.
Sally was born a girl without privates. She had no ding dong, neither a place to store it.
Her parents decided to wait until she developed a sense of self, naming her the Poppet until she did. She chose her name for herself.
Tonight she drags me into a nook, because she likes them and crannies, and shows me a good time, to make me forgetful, at least for the moment, of past week's events.
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