bridgctsâ:
Perched cross-legged on the table, sheâs goblin-like, Puck in the forest, poison-eyed, dagger-grinned, a bubble of gum at her lips and a battered anthology on her lap. Itâs interesting enough to the grotty parts of her, the parts that stay awake listening to podcasts on Ted Bundy, or shoot the dying flesh of a fledgling bird to splice into her documentary, but she brushes it off with a scrunch of her nose rendering her careless and fickle once more. âIf you love human bodies so much, why donât you fuck one?â Bridget licks her thumb to turn the page, a smudge of black left on the corner, stills from Annie Hall in black and red on white. âFuck Woody Allen. Honestly, fuck that guy.â She means it, too. Thereâs venom in her stare, fishnet knees bouncing restlessly against the desk. âDo you know how many straight white dudes on my course are like oh, you can separate art from artist, blah blah, I wank myself to sleep every night thinking about lesbian porn. He married his fucking daughter, Andrew, you dozy cunt.â
Jude was not expecting that response but her reaction wasnât filled with surprise but more of curiosity as to why the other womanâs thoughts immediately went there. âBecause Iâd rather not fuck Woody Allen.â She merely replied, not sure if the other would even hear her as she began in on a rant. When it seemed the other girl was finished, Jude just blinked up from her own book. âPerhaps you should tell Andrew that.â









