Nobody really had any idea what Saskia had done, what had been done to her. She was good at keeping secrets, telling half-truths, never letting anyone see how fucked up and insane she really was. She hid behind bravado and alcohol and aggression. She shrugged, tucking her long black hair behind her ear. “Depends on how you look at it. Tragedy is different for everyone. Just yesterday I saw a girl crying on the quad over her smashed iPhone. How shell go on after that, I have no idea,” Saskia said, expertly changing the subject off herself. She smiled again, cocking her head. “No, those fools didn’t even sign a pre-nup. Although Ken was an alcoholic, and Barbie was fucking some 20 year old model. I remember Barbie even threw a vase a Ken’s head at one point. Poor kids. There was a long drawn out custody battle, their poor daughter developed a lot of trust issues and a daddy complex. Wonder what ever happened to her,” she mused, the smirk still on her face. The Barbie and Ken story was a bit of a metaphor for her own childhood, eerily similar, a truth told in an offhand, puzzling manner. “The state of sex ed in this country is terrible. You think from watching all that porn y’all would know something about fucking a girl, but alas. Every dude I’ve ever met still can’t tell the words clit and lit apart.”
“Oh shit, hopefully her daddy had iPhone insurance or some shit,” he muttered, rolling his eyes at how petty tragedy seemed to be these days. Though it was clear, the ones who had really experienced such a thing didn’t talk about what happened to themselves, just the shitty versions of everyone else’s problems. At least, that’s what Tony did. He’d rather talk about his his mother loved red wine more than her children than how he had put a gun to his nephew’s head to coax his brother in law from his master bedroom. Good thing that baby wouldn’t remember and instead Tony was left with nightmares of the images instead. “A vase, huh? She probably would have done more damage with a hair dryer, but you know, when you’re angry you’ll do anything to prove a point. Maybe that was all that within reach.” Smirking, Tony stuck his hands in his pockets of his jacket, giving Saskia a small shrug. “Poor baby’s probably a stripper named Cinnamon. That’s where most daddy issued children of divorce wind up. I mean, stereotypically at least.” Another laugh pulled from the pit of Tony’s diaphragm. “Good fucking lord, I’m so sorry.”
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