Love, Theoretically

The person unbuttoning his North Face coat—
—is none other than Jack Smith.

No, he reverse parks. Without sweating or crying or a litany of fuck shit fuck. I hate him.

“Remember when Caitie was pumping and kept her bottles in the fridge of the student lounge?”
“And Kroll used it.”
“For his coffee.” Sunny shakes her head. “Good times.”

“I think a lot about how much you hate me, too.”

“May I please watch you eat something?” Bam, dimple. “It’ll be good for my mental health.”

Why are men?

Insulin and glucagon. Rey and Kylo Ren. Galileo and the entire Catholic Church, circa 1615.

“Since I’ve met you exactly five times so far, and during two of those you suffered from some diabetes-related complication that required my help.”
“Eight more and I get a free sub?”

unwise, letting yourself get hangry when you’re with someone you daydream of slaughtering at baseline.

I’ve heard great things about crystal meth.