torncrown.
“ You’re such a BUZZKILL, Kev. Candy before dinner is a hallmark of young adulthood. ” Phone had been dug out of her pocket before Kevin finished the sentence, and she’s waggling it in the air as she speaks. Number is dialed, and screen pressed to her ear — one, two, three, welcome to Vito’s New York Slices. They’re in the middle of fucking Arizona. Sausage and mushroom, her favorite, and barbeque chicken, Kevin’s. An order of garlic knots, and mozzerella sticks, with extra marinara sauce. It’s an order that’s been practiced so many times, if one particular pimply-faced teen answered the phone, she could just tell him it was the regular. A couple of ‘uh huhs’ and it’s set down on the counter, where she looks at the other expectantly. “ Carmel corn or regular popcorn? OOH — both? ”
kevin wasn’t a stranger to the term being tossed into her direction as a descriptor, but she was only now beginning to embrace it wholeheartedly. kevin ‘ buzzkill ’ oswalt . . . it had a nice ring to it. also suggested she was more responsible, and mature, than she’d ever give herself credit to. “ i’m traditional. ” she corrects, an index raised in the process. “ and i’d like to think there’s a difference. ” there wasn’t. at least not in her experience . . . oh, well. at least she knew who she was, and it was more than she was capable of saying two years ago. “ you decide. since i am . . . depriving you of your -- youthful, yet adulty, experiences. ” adulty, there was a word that didn’t exude maturity.

















