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Dowdy

She was going to stop seeing him anyway.

He didn't know that, of course. As far as he was concerned, things were going great.

Things weren't going great.

She wasn't a nice person, not by any stretch of the imagination. Insincere, fickle, teasing, and difficult, Malika was never more invested in someone more than she was invested in herself. She was selfish and unbothered by it. Everyone, to her mind, would be a lot happier if they allowed themselves to be more selfish.

And this guy she'd gone on a handful of dates with was certainly selfish.

But he was also mean.

And it was a boring, unfun, unpleasant sort of meanness. Being mean could be entertaining! Malika'd always enjoyed a good biting back and forth between two shitty people who clearly were having a good time with their horribleness. But the participants had to enjoy it or what was the point?

There was nothing joyful or entertaining about this man's meanness. He didn't seem to get anything out of it but anger and an inflated sense of superiority. He brought the mood around him down with it. That was the exact opposite of fun and Malika was only ever invested so long as there was fun to be had.

Oh, sure, he was attractive. He had the prettiest brown eyes she'd ever seen. And she'd never dated a Viera before so that was novel and exciting. But there would be more pretty brown eyes out there for her to marvel at and he wasn't the only Viera in the world. Maybe the next one would at least have fun when he was being a bastard.

Tassilo was always particularly shitty when it came to fashion. On every one of the four or five dates she'd gone on with him, he'd commented on how little the others around them seemed to care about their appearance. He'd criticize color choices, material choices, shoe choices, jewelry, hair styles– really anything at all– as though it were fascinating conversation that made him look particularly gifted at fashion himself.

It didn't. He looked fine. But his snide, angry comments actually made him look less fashionable and less attractive, not more.

So she had no choice. She had to end it.

And if she was going to end it, she was going to have fun with it.

Why do anything at all if it wasn't fun?

He'd invited her to a fancy art gala. He'd told her he'd bought a new, tailored outfit for it. He would be wearing new, expensive boots. He couldn't wait to see what she'd wear.

She looked forward to showing him.

He did not appreciate being shown.

"How do I look?" she asked, turning in a circle to give him the full view from all angles. "I worked hard on it."

"What have you…" his face was red either from anger or embarrassment, perhaps both.

"You don't like it?"

'It' was a literal burlap sack– well, several burlap sacks that she'd fashioned into the most shapeless dress imaginable. It hung, unflatteringly, straight down, somehow managing to avoid every sensual curve of her body in the process. It was completely shapeless. She'd worked hard on that and was genuinely quite pleased to have accomplished it. With it she wore gray shoes she'd fashioned from cheap felt. They were extremely poorly made, given she had no experience making shoes, and they hardly functioned at all. In fact, she had to wait to put them on once she'd gotten close to the date spot because she knew they'd be too ruined to be effective otherwise.

She'd chopped her long black hair to her shoulders. She'd done it herself with no measuring and no care. It did not look good.

Her nail polish was chipped.

Her jewelry was cheap and did not match.

She wore no makeup on her face.

He had no way of knowing how much effort she'd just spent to look like she'd made no effort at all.

"You've done this on purpose," he said matter of factly, but there was a dangerous chill to his voice.

Oh. Ok. Maybe he did know!

"You've done this to embarrass me."

Wow. Damn. He was surprisingly perceptive. Credit where credit was due.

"So…" she said slowly, playing stupid, "You're saying you don't like it?"

"I was excited to see you. I've been excited all week. And you ruined it. You ruined it!"

She smiled. "Yeah. Ruining stuff is kind of my thing. I'm very good at it.”

"You can't go in there."

"Oh, I bet I can."

He bristled. "You can't go in there with me. I won't let you. It's not happening."

"If you go in there," she said sweetly, "I will find every excuse to stand next to you. If you are embarrassed now, I urge you to consider just how embarrassed you'll be if I make a scene."

He stared at her.

She stared right back.

He'd always had a million things to say before. Now he couldn't even think of one. Defeated, he relented.

"Ok. Let's go in together."

"Wait, what??"

She hadn't expected this response.

"You win," he said. "Let's go in together. Let's have this last date. We'll look at art. I won't comment on your clothes. After, we'll go back to my place where I'll angrily take them off you. In the morning you break up with me the right way and steal one of my favorite shirts. You suffer for several moons while your hair, which you hastily chopped off just to spite a guy you knew for one moon, grows back. I spend the same amount of time resenting you until I realize you're not worth resenting because you're an insane, petty bitch."

Wow.

Ok.

So he was capable of being interesting while being mean.

This was, in fact, the most interesting he had ever been and she loved it!

She absolutely loved it.

Fuck!

She grinned. It was genuine. "Ok," she said, taking his arm,"You'll have to point out your favorite shirt to me though. I've only known you a moon. I haven't figured it out yet."

He chuckled ruefully and led her inside, "Of course. I'd hate to make the break up difficult on you, after all."

They would date for several more moons until he eventually broke up with her for being insincere, fickle, teasing, and difficult. She still stole his favorite shirt. And left her burlap dress behind in his closet as a souvenir.

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