Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

I look at the ceiling and heave a sigh.
“Okay, fine, killjoy. Don’t tell me about your amazing anal
sex. But you have to tell me one thing.”
“What?”
Resting her elbows on the table, she leans closer and
lowers her voice. “He’s hung like a Clydesdale, isn’t he?”
It’s my turn to smile mysteriously.
She gasps in outrage and slaps her open palm on the
tabletop. “You twat! You can’t keep that to yourself!”
When I only sip my wine and keep smiling, she glowers at
me.
“If you don’t start talking, I’ll shoot you with this gun in
my boot. I swear, I will.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“I kept that picture of you from when you first got your
braces on when you were fifteen. Remember how that was
during your mohawk-and-black-lipstick phase, when you
wanted to run away and join the circus to be an emo clown?
And you’d been experimenting with facial piercings? You had
such cute freckles then, too.”
She says flatly, “You know those were zits. And it was a
punk contortionist, not a fucking emo clown. And you told me
you threw that photo out!”
I sigh dreamily, as if lost in good memories. “I lied. But
I’m sure the local paper would love to feature a throwback pic
of the third runner-up in the Miss Tahoe contest of 2014—”
“2015.”
“—in the Lifestyle section. You’re such a popular yoga
teacher in this area. How many Instagram followers do you
have now? Four thousand?”
“Forty thousand. Which you know. Witch.”