Date. There’s that bloody word again.
“I don’t date,” I say, popping the last fry into my mouth between a sip of milkshake.
“But if you did, don’t tell me this isn’t a thousand times better than The fucking Salinger?” he chuckles, pushing me back onto the grass.
He claims my mouth and I let him, because I need something to occupy my mind now it’s empty. All day thoughts of Dante have muted the urge to find release.
This would be such a romantic setting.
If it weren’t for the tingles in my fingers,
If it wasn’t for the itch beginning to gnaw under my skin…the darkness is back, crawling under my skin like a fat worm. A revulsion in the depths of my gut, drowning everything else until I can’t think and I can’t breathe.
Until the only thing I can think of is…
Killing Dante.