Kleenex Box

“Jesus Christ, why—why can't you just—just love me?” he asked her.

“Nobody ever loves you like you love yourself,” she said enigmatically. It wasn't much of an answer, certainly not the answer he wanted.

“No, I guess not. But I can't do anything about that. What am I supposed to do?”

“Well,” she said, starting to look tired, “there's always masturbation, I guess. You're awfully good at that.”

“Thanks a lot,” he said. She acted as if he couldn't see what she was doing and it was driving her crazy.

“Nobody said you had to do anything,” she told him. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to do.”

“God, I hate people like that,” he told himself. It did make it easier to stop thinking about love, though.

“Sometimes it's just biology that tells you what to do, you know?”

“Maybe so,” she said. “But this is survival of the fittest that we're playing here, not what's fair for everyone. And you're unfit.”

He realized then that she wasn't as calm or casual about all this as it seemed. If she could have ripped off his cock and handed it to him, she probably would have. He was ready to give up.

“Look!” she said. “Don't you see what I'm doing? Does it really look like I need you very much?” She added sharply, “Why don't you just go home and fuck a box of Kleenex? That's probably all I am to you anyway, just a great-feeling box of tissues!”

“No, that's not how I felt about you. But I am beginning to think that that is all you are.”

Everybody’s face had turned red by now.

4th draft: 12/20/06
©1990 Ronald C. Southern

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