𝙸n retrospect, [ HEATHER CHANDLER ] is a mythic bitch; Once this principle is accepted as law, the whole thing ceases to be so confusing & becomes almost entirely legible.
𝚃his mall receives these two queen bees in its usual obscene grandeur that fluorescent appetite and aspiration, polished tile & mirrored columns & storefronts glowing with cold evangelism. THEIR NATURAL HABITAT. Jennifer, in this moment of miscalculation or else infuriating intimacy names Heather's tone. And in that voice, for fucks sake. The one most would reserve for chiding small children & skittish animals.
/ @jennifercheck : "STOP PICKING FIGHTS WHEN YOU'RE TIRED." , ©
𝙸t takes very few words to reach her threshold, a hard internal click. Her arms cross over her chest with the clipped, declarative finality of shutter slammed against a storm & sets her shoulders square. “ Quit rootin' around my psyche, will'ya? IT'S CREEPY. ” The line slices, Heather's bluntness has none of the fumbling heaviness of any ordinary cruelty, [ she is too good at it for that. ] She attempts to paint Jennifer's observation sound less like insight more trespass, less like care more of some clammy little vice, as if being faithfully perceptive about one Heather Chandler without any particular invitations, were akin to sticking one's hands where they clearly do not belong. “ What are you, my fuckin' sponsor? ” And yet, because she is not simple, because bitches of Heather's caliber rarely are there is always in the center of perfect abrasiveness some exquisitely defended little mechanism. So, she concedes, Though in the narrow, weaponized manner available to her. She may not say you're right, Jen, help me !! ; such a statement would require introspection & surrender, two vulgarities that neither of which does she possess. [ HEATHER DOES AS HEATHER MUST: CORRECTION. ] “ ... I'm starving, actually. Y'know, FYI. ” Important distinction, of course. A more solvable problem then how undeniably weary she is. Do not psychoanalyze Heather.
“ Buy me fries. ” The words are tossed off with careless authority, with which a duchess might ask for a cigarette to be lit or a coat to be fetched. Heather has merely translated vulnerabilities into task, turned whatever live, & embarrassing thing Jennifer had nearly touched her french-tipped thumb to into something so banal. Feed your cunt of a girlfriend. Girlfriend? Titles between them have always felt terribly bureaucratic. [ Lovers? Co-conspirators? ] Take your pick. Girlfriend, sometimes. Keeper, frequently.