You Suck: A Love Story

entree.”
    “Something you ate isn’t agreeing with you?” Tommy grinned at her when she looked back at him, but the fire went out of her eyes.
    “You can just cross sweet monkey love right off your list,” Jody said.
    “Jeez, what a bitch,” said William. “Her time of the month?”
    Tommy quickly wrapped his arms around Jody, lifted her off her feet, and carried her a few steps around the corner, even as she squirmed.
    “Let me go, I’m not going to hurt him.”
    “Good.”
    “Much.”
    “That’s what I thought,” Tommy said, still holding her tight. “Why don’t you head over to the Walgreens and I’ll finish up with the huge cat guy?”
    A family of Christmas shoppers smiled as they passed them, thinking they were young lovers indulging in a public display of affection. The father whispered “Get a room” under his breath to his wife, which a normal person wouldn’t have heard.
    “Count your lucky stars, buddy, we almost did it in the Santa’s Workshop window. Hot, sweaty elf sex-in front of the kids. The kids would have liked that, huh?”
    The father hurried his family on down the street.
    “Nice,” Jody said. “Way to stay under the radar.”
    “Well, you know, I like to stay sharp,” Tommy said. Because he was nineteen and had only started having sex regularly since he met Jody, he still thought he had some sort of secret knowledge that was unavailable to other people. How can they possibly be thinking about anything else? he thought in the private part of his mind.
    “I’ll bet it smells like peppermint,” Tommy said.
    “What?”
    “Elf sex.”
    “Would you please put me down.”
    “Okay, but don’t hurt the huge cat guy.”
    “I’m fine. I’ll meet you at the drugstore in five minutes. This had better work.”
    “Five minutes,” Tommy said. “Cinnamon. Maybe it smells like cinnamon.”
    T he pale couple stalked the aisles of the Walgreens, having a great time dismissing the crass accoutrements of bourgeois American life, and generally scoffing at all the conventions of traditional culture. They were elite, after all. Special. Chosen-if you will-if only by the nature of their heightened sensitivities and superior sensibilities. They both claimed the ability to look past the facade put on by most people, and see the very depths of the human soul. Strange, then, that they didn’t see it coming when the skinny guy in a flannel shirt popped around the corner in front of them.
    “Let’s ask these guys,” Flannel said. “They look like heroin addicts.”
    Jared White Wolf and Abby Normal backpedaled from the eyeliner display where they’d been looking for something hypoallergenic. Abby’s eyes had been watering all night, causing her makeup to run and giving her more of a sad-clown-of-life look than she was going for.
    Jared hid behind Abby, just a little, which was awk-ward, since he was nearly a foot taller than she. The guy in flannel was joined by a beautiful, pale redhead, carrying an armload of toiletries. What amazing hair, Abby thought, looking at the long red tresses. I’d give anything for hair like that.
    “Tommy, leave these poor people alone,” said the redhead.
    “No, wait.” Flannel turned to Abby and smiled. “Do you guys know where they keep the syringes?”
    Abby looked at Jared, who looked at the guy in flannel. “Well, you can’t just buy them,” Jared said. He was fiddling with the leather straps on his bondage pants, looking coy. Abby slapped his hand.
    “You need a prescription to buy syringes,” Abby said.
    “Do you really think I look like a heroin addict?” Jared threw his bangs out of his face dramatically. His head was shaved except for his bangs, which reached to his chin, specifically so he could throw them out of his face dramatically. “I was, like, thinking that maybe I should bulk up. You know, eat and stuff, but-”
    “Well, thanks,” said Flannel Shirt. The redhead moved off down the aisle. “I was going to try some heroin, but if you can’t buy needles, well, there you go. See you guys. Nice shirt, by the way.”
    Abby looked down at her T-shirt, black, of course, with the image of a poet taken from a nineteenth-century etching. “Like you even know who it is.”
    “‘She walks in beauty, like the night,’” quoted the flannel-shirt guy. He winked at her, then grinned.
    “Byron’s a hero of mine. See ya.”
    He turned and started to walk away. Abby reached out and snagged his sleeve. “Hey, there are