Page 146 of The Stud

Luckily for me, the modern take on an annoying classic is done in a way that I can appreciate.

Guns for swords – although I prefer swords – is worthy of a stick tap much like the depiction of using gang violence to demonstrate what modern war between households could be.

And two lovers…from different worlds…not meant to be together but unable to resist the way the other makes them feel…hits me harder than expected.

And deeper.

It pulls tears up the back of my throat to linger on my eyelids, which is where they stay due to my refusal to let them off the bench.

Fuck that!

I shouldn’t be crying.

I have no reason to cry.

Star-crossed lovers apparently never get to be together.

Why would I expect to be an exception?

“Room on the couch for one more?” Dad cautiously inquires during his entrance that I missed but Bear didn’t given the way he’s in a guard stance beside the coffee table to better protect me. “I brought wings.”

A curious glance is thrown in his direction. “Kind?”

“Mango habanero.”

Sitting up is more of an automatic response than a thought through one.

I scoot over to give my dad the necessary room to set up shop and drape my “duck around and find out blanket” across my shoulders like an old lady shawl during high tea.

There’s an immediate glimpse at the action yet no comment.

Then again, what exactly is there to say about your depressed daughter sporting bedwear like an afternoon accessory.

Dad pops open the container, releasing the delicious fumes into the air, and I swiftly dive my hand inside to grab an overdue assist in sending the unshed tears to their dry stall.

My teeth have barely finished chomping down for a bite when he awkwardly begins, “So…uh…are we gonna talk about this?”

“What exactly? I ask between angry smacks. “Being fired from my dream job? Probably almost definitely being cheated on by my boyfriend – er ex-boyfriend –not notboyfriend?Having the whole thing filmed for literallythousandsof people to witness thanks to my twat twin conspiring with my camera man co-worker who I punched in the gibs when he came clean about it in the parking lot?”

Me sassily ripping off another piece from the bone precedes the man beside me casually kicking a thumb towards the flat screen. “I meant the movie.”

Shame unforgivingly seeps into my complexion forcing me to hide with more food.

Dad nonchalantly dips a fry in blue cheese and shrugs. “But we can talk about the other shit instead.”

“We don’t have to.”

“But wecan.”

“We shouldn’t.”

“Maybe weshould.”

Dad’s counter successfully sends my stare to his.

“Mi pequeña rebelde…” the end of the fry gets abandoned inside the container near the wings, “I know that we typically treat you more like our littlemijothanmijabut that doesn’t mean youcan’texpress your feelings. It doesn’t mean we can’t talk about non-sports shit.”

Unhappy grumbles are attached to reaching for another wing.

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