Miranda, 20, Canadian, gay, university student, LGBTQ+ advocate, into fandom, writer, avid reader, feminist, hopeless romantic, and everything else.
Talk to me!
My heart belongs to her <3
He had been a jackass. That much was clear. And she was giving him the silent treatment because of it. He had tried apologizing but she just lay there next to him, occasionally sniffing or cringing in a silent sob. He had no patience for crying.
“C’mon.” he said.
She turned over and pulled the covers even tighter over her head.
“You‘re blowing this out of proportion! I was drunk. These things happen!”
She gasped for air and trembled.
“ Oh Jesus Christ, stop it. I’m sorry, okay! I can’t go back in time and change things, so I’m sorry! What more can I do?”
Her head nodded “no” underneath the covers.
“All right, great, you’re out of your goddamn mind, you know that? If you’re so angry then why didn’t you leave, huh?”
He had her there. Hours earlier, she had been screaming at him, threatening to go and never come back. But sure enough, when he was nudged awake at 3AM, there she was in bed next to him.
“I’ll tell you why, because all you do and piss and moan about me and I’m sick of it. I’m done. I am done. Get out and go.”
She held her ground.
“I’m not kidding.”
She didn’t move.
“What are you deaf? GO!” he said in a voice that betrayed just how drunk he still was.
She curled up tight into a ball, shaking harder than ever. He’d gotten his point across. Now he could reel her back in.
“Look, you know I hate shouting at you babe.” he said, softly, “But you see what happens when you get naggy?”
She relaxed a little bit.
“I love you.” he said.
She scooted an inch closer.
As his hand reached under the sheets to stroke her side, his phone on the bedside table buzzed loudly. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Hon, could you pass me my phone?”
She nodded “no“ coyly.
“Okay, okay. I see what you’re doing.”
He reached over her and answered. “Hello?”
“I just thought you should know that I’ll be back tomorrow to pick up the rest of my things.” She said through the phone.
“So you’d better be up. Enjoy sleeping alone tonight, jackass.”
She hung up.
He looked down at the mound under the sheets that shook with laughter, and a smell like rotten meat filled the room.
The covers flew off and He screamed and screamed and screamed.
Sometimes I just stop and think about “Max Keebles Big Move” and wonder if I just imagined it
via The Huffington Post.
We call ships ‘she.’ We call our war machines ‘women.’ We compare women to black widows and vipers. And you’re going to tell me it’s not ‘lady-like’ to scream, to take up space, to fight and demand respect and do whatever the hell I want. You’ve looked at nuclear bombs and been so in awe that you could only name them after women. Don’t try to down-play my power.
I want to frame this and put it next to my computer.