He had asked, "Who among you knew exactly how much your parents earned?"
The sundae though was a piece of impressionist art, but with more flat candidness than swirling fluidity (so Manet, not Monet). She felt triggered, wondering why on earth was there no warning for the graphicness of salted caramel munching on whipped cream carpet.
Suddenly a spoon. Hey, Armine protested the assaulting scoop from the other side of the table.
Rion licked her weapon, purring. "It's really good. I like it."
Armine gaped at the four-year-older woman-child.
"You're doubting me now, but it's delicious."
Armine's curled her left fist, leaving only the middle finger.
"Do you know what is more irresistible than ice cream though?" Rion's right eye was blinded with blistering love. Armine did not want to know.
"Mary's vagina," Rion began nibbling the caramel off her ring fingers. "With candle wax and Armenian wines as topping, of course. But even without them, it's still the sweetest I've ever had."
Armine was eighteen and thus a kid who just had her ice cream stolen. That was what she told herself when she knocked on Rion's head and heart, spilling that Mary was heteroromantic homosexual.
That night, Armine listened to his breaths in between ear nibbles and neck kisses. Her chest rose and fell as she bit her already bruised lips. "I want to do you like I do my daughter," he communicated without words. Back forming the Arc de Triomphe, she curled his right hand and guided it up her thigh.
Rion told her once that fisting desensitized. She told Rion to try punching herself sometimes.
Old-er, the computerized voice reminded her from behind the camera. In her case, as old as her own number of years alive. Nose rings off; tiger jackets swapped with a blue dress suit that dove strategically down her collar, covering just enough to conceal the bites; black extensions caressing her round cheeks. We finally saw her cheeks, exclaimed the computer.
She giggled at the notion that a computer could see, knowing that the showrunner would edit the footage to make it seem like she was giggling at her own empowered womanhood.
To give them credit, she looked ready to conquer the White House. 1995 White House that was, when Bill ran the interns.
"Before the make-under, ninety six percent of the public wanted to avoid you – notably one bloke said he would egg you on the street," the computer ran its data analysis. The production assistant signaled her to react with his own forced grin. She swung her hips dramatically and struck her best Kardashian pose.
"After the make-under, twenty two percent of the public wanted to marry you, and, wait for it," the computer raised its voice, injecting as much attitude as a machine could. "Seventy eight percent said they would happily fertilize your sweet egg."
She blew a kiss at the direction that the "public" would be placed on the screen after post production, thankful that she would not have to spend her negative savings on attire for the Monday job interview.
He winced at the face. She winced at the face too, so she deselected the skin layer on Photoshop, plastering the cobalt sky across his eyeballs.
"Now it looks like you," she smiled sweetly at the hollowness on his face.
Armine lay down the broken twin bed that had not been hers for five years. As horrific visions of puberty escaped her memory reserve, she stretched her arms trying to seize them but failed. The sensation of hands against skin, instead, invoked a kind of distant familiarity that was akin to an out-of-body experience.
She examined the latest discolored patch of skin below her chin. She nudged the crease of her stomach fat, and then – putting her hand into her own pants – the nook of her pubic bone. She kneaded up her inner thighs and closed her eyes, burying her head into the pillow.
"Today I will be gentle with my heart," she whispered to no one. "And today I will be gentle with my clit."