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“Professionals would use their names.”
“Fine.” Humoring me occurs between bites of his honey dew. “Is screaming your human frustrations any more inappropriate than you cheering on Peanut Butter and Jelly during their copulation time yesterday?”
“Why can’t you just say during their bang time?”
“How is that professional?”
“It’s not, but every time you say copulation, I basically get PTSD style flashbacks of Intro to Marine Biology with Professor Stojan and wanna start dry heaving from the inexplicable wafts of tuna and term papers that seemed to seep from the pores of that Cardassian looking bitch.”
“You had a professor that looked like a Kardashian?”
“Cardassian.” Dropping my bag near my locker space proceeds me glaring. “Star Trek not reality star.”
“But you hear how confusing that is, right?”
“What I hear is you need more time binging and less time booging.”
“We both know I prefer surfing.”
“We both know you prefer surfing when the bikini bottoms are low, and the waves are high.”
Calen chuckles to himself at the same time I shove my key into my work locker. Almost immediately after opening, I release another unhappy huff over the sight inside.
“We also both know you don’t have a spare shirt in there, so you’re going to need to grab one out of mine.”
He’s immediately tossed a tiny glare to which he responds to by smugly shoving the last bite on his fork into his mouth.
Asshole.
But like the good kind.
The kind I actually need in my life unlike the bad kind I’m engaged to.
Though, I’m not sure for how long at the rate he keeps disappointing me.
And fucking ignoring me.
I didn’t think it was fucking possible to be ghosted by your own fucking fiancé yet here we are.
Calen waits until I shift over a step to open his locker with the spare key, he gave me to claim, “You’re pissed off about more than just the unexpected rainstorm here to usher away your man in style.”
There’s no stopping my shoulders from dropping as I meet his gaze. “Palaemon is literally fucking weeping for him, bro.”
“Greek God of Sharks?”
“And harbors and sailors in danger and ships with fucking problems and really just shit in that category.”
“Isn’t that Poseidon?”
“That’s the big dick of all of water.” Grabbing a spare work shirt from his locker is effortlessly executed. “Palaemon is just the big dick of marine shit.”
“Won’t literally scream at work due to the handbook’s ruling about appropriate voice volumes yet has no problem saying the word dick with impunity every chance provided.”
“What can I say?” The ripping off of my damp tank top is swift. “I’m gifted.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“I’m exhausted,” I chomp during an adjustment of my gray sports bra that’s wedged on top of my regular bra for extra support. “I honestly don’t know if we were interviewing wedding vendors or future possible vice presidents.”
