['in that particular sphere,' kavinsky almost parrots her from the kitchen. 'one less barrier.' her words seem to be a setup for all the horrifying remarks he could make, about her genitalia and speculation as to its condition, her hymen, the question of atrophy, all the usual awful ableist things. instead

he carries out tumblers of some boozy concoction, fizzy with soda and very strong. two of them. one heavy glass goes right to amanda, stuck into her shoulder with enough force to send the ice cubes rattling around.

in a moment, he's thumping back down to sit beside her, leaning back into the cushions. staring at the tv. pretending to be more interested in titties than her story, even though that isn't true, not even a little.] Are you fucked up he died, or are you fucked up you didn't get to make out with him for realsies even if he is? Or-- [he takes a mouthful of fizzy booze, slides his ass down on the couch.] Or, maybe you're just thinking about him because it's a good distraction. But it ain't really about him. Sometimes I got that way about guys whose dick I wanted to sit on.

[he twists his too-big lips into a cheerful leer, folding his fingers into a shocker for a moment. maximum empathy. maximum understanding.]