“You’ve never seen Pulp Fiction? Never??” Mickey presses, his masculine brow arching surprised and incredulous. Disappointed, but there’s a flit in his brain—his thought process—that shows excitable in his long limbs that settle into the small diner booth—miraculously. His permanent ink scribble-adorned hands drum lightly on the table as he continues, “well, there’s this scene, in a diner, like this—"
His words trail off as he looks past his company towards the gleaming metallic napkin holders, shiny laminated menus, and other patrons all around.
“There’s this couple, in a booth—like this—and the woman—,” Mickey looks down and scratches the corner of a stash framing his mouth. “She’s not.... ‘conventionally beautiful’—not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he assures, quick, as his stolen peridot green eyes double in size. He looked straight ahead at his company. He hoped he didn’t offend. And he hoped he didn’t imply that they weren’t beautiful—them, seated across from him, making his face feel warm.
“My point is...” Mickey looks down, playing with a Sweet’n Low packet, twirling it round and round with his finger on the pink corner; it helped him ignore the indigestion feeling in the pit of his stomach. Only it wasn’t indigestion. Men howled like wolves in cartoons when they felt the way Mickey felt seated in front of someone he liked; liked the way Tim Roth liked Amanda Plummer in a silly movie.
“In the credits, at the end, she’s listed.. as ‘Honey Bunny’. A term of endearment,” Mickey explains with a smile. “That’s the name of her character.”
A waitress walks past the booth, making a mental note to grab two menus for Mickey and company who were seated in her section.
“In my opinion, one of the greatest love stories, and the crazy thing,” Mickey props an elbow on the table with a slight bang as he excitedly adds on, talking with his hand for emphasis.
“Yolanda. Her name is Yolanda. They say it towards the end of the movie—loud and clear. And yet, in the end, when the credits roll.. she’s still.. ‘Honey Bunny’. To her significant other, even under pressure, with a fucking GUN to his head—she’s still.. ‘Honey Bunny’.”
Mickey’s mouth is level, his lips are full. His eyes are clear and very serious as he denotes soft, “that’s love.” His tone turns mocking and humorous with a smirk, “that may not be... Kate and Leo clinging to a piece of driftwood in the middle of the fucking sea, but, that’s.. it—that’s it for me.” Mickey finally rests his case and his broad back in denim jacket against the backrest of his bench seat. “Did I guess yours correctly?” He teases with a grin.
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