“What made you choose that name?” I ask.
Giving me more evols, this time it’s her turn to be the one rolling her eyes.
“Ugh, you don’t listen to a single thing I say, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve told you about Hachikō before.”
“Have you?”
“Yes—and once again it seems as though you weren’t listening. Not that it surprises me, but still, it would be nice for you to actually pay attention for once.”
Searching my mind, I vaguely remember the name from somewhere, but that’s about it.
“It’s not my fault,” I say, “my mind’s very selective with what it remembers.”
“Don’t give me that. It’s you who’s being selective, not your bloody brain. I can tell when you’re not listening to me because your eyes cloud over. If the conversation doesn’t revolve around serial killers or sex, you lose interest.”
“That’s not true at all,” I say in defence, although secretly I’m in agreement.
“A writer’s mind is a curious thing. It’s has a way of its own. I’m merely its vessel.”
“God—here we go. Whenever I question you about something, you give me the same, vague, pretentious answers. You moan about me giving you silence, but at least I don’t palm you off with tripe.”
“Tripe?” I spit.
“Tripe,” she repeats.
“So, to you, my art—the meaning of my life—is nothing more than tripe?”
Fidgeting, she peels away more of the label on her bottle of beer.
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“Don’t start getting tetchy. All I meant was that you use your writing as an excuse.”
“No, I don’t.”
It’s true, though. Whenever I get bored with people or am too lazy to do anything, I come out with philosophical mumbo jumbo. Most of the time, it works, but not with Meeko.
“Look at me,” she says.
Gazing at her as she sits before me with the sun on her face, I stare into her eyes. I see many things in those eyes. Not all of them are beautiful, yet they’re all magical. Lost in thought, I feel myself slipping into a dream.
“You see. Your eyes have clouded over. You’ve got the attention span of a toddler, not to mention the same breast fixation. Sometimes I feel like less of a lover to you and more of a mother.”
A Journal for Damned Lovers UK
A Journal for Damned Lovers US
Categories: Lucid
Author S. K. Nicholas 
Another great one, S.K.
g.r.
Thank you! 🙂
And, the two of you, fall into, that vicious cycle of relating to one another the way you always do, and love gets, spent up, and reduced, little by little, until it’s, completely, gone…
Spending that love is the one thing you need to avoid. Turning bliss into shit is no good for anyone.
You’re really good at this 👍
That’s very kind of you to say 🙂