Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

walk into a room without automatically scanning it for his
face.
“I live with the ghost of a man I thought I’d grow old with,
the suffocating weight of questions that will never be
answered, and the crushing guilt of knowing the last thing I
ever said to him was, ‘If you’re late, I’ll kill you.’”
I turn from the window and look at her. “So all things
considered, merely surviving is a win.”
Eyes shining, Sloane murmurs, “Oh, honey.”
I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. She
squeezes my hand again, then says, “You know what we
need?”
“Electroshock therapy?”
Releasing my hand, she sits back in her chair, shaking her
head. “You and your dark humor. I was gonna say
guacamole.”
“Are you paying? Because the guac here is ten bucks for
two tablespoons, and I’ve heard I’m cheap.”
She smiles fondly at me. “It’s among your many
shortcomings, but perfect people are boring.”
“Okay, but I’m warning you right now, I haven’t eaten
since breakfast.”
“Babe, I know you well enough to keep my hands at a safe
distance when you’re eating. Remember that time we shared a
bowl of popcorn while we watched The Notebook? I almost
lost a finger.”
“I can’t wait until we’re old and you have dementia. This
photographic memory of yours is the worst.”
“Why am I gonna be the one with dementia? You’re the
one who refuses to eat a vegetable!”
“I’m about to have some smashed avocadoes. Doesn’t that
count?”
“An avocado is a fruit, genius.”