Take Scat!

Every spike of his spiky hair was spiked to spiky perfection, held in place by the strongest mousse he could find, each strand ready to impale anything that may come near it. His poppy elbows were popped, needing only another 10 or 100 pops the rest of the day before he'd be confident they were all popped out. A dull Rodney Hampton jersey - his favorite player and the only fan Rodney Hampton probably ever had - hung off his bony shoulders and almost reached his knees. The lobster ravioli was thawed and sitting in the microwave, awaiting a nuking. Lettuce; tomato, cucumber, purple onion slices; and a quart of blue cheese dressing lounged in a large, wooden bowl, restless to be scarfed down.

Mark glanced around the kitchen once more, then turned his attention to the bowl in front of him, into which he hocked a slimeball of fresh snot. He giggled, then gloved his hands with the latex gloves he'd bought for the occasion. Slowly, he kneaded the dingleberries against the bottom of the bowl, churning them with his knuckles into a thick, brown paste. He dumped the gloves into the trash can and read the instructions on the box. Once the ingredients were pulverized together with a couple hundred thrusts of the handheld mixer, he spooned and smoothed them into the greased, glass baking pan, then set them in the pre-heated oven, dipping his finger deep into the mix once to taste his creation.

He stood up straight and stretched, swirling the cake mix against the roof of his mouth. He wanted to run upstairs and jerk off to relieve his aching boner but instead quickly put it under his waist band as the doorbell rang. When he opened the door, Bette smiled, her nostrils flaring. "Something smells great!" she said.

"Oh, I've got a little treat for you," said Mark. Then he leaned forward and stuck his smeared tongue in her mouth, at which she giggled and wrapped her arms around his lean waist to tighten their kiss.

Tête-à-Bette

"You really do make the best coffee. Seriously, you should open a coffee shop-"

Mark grinned and stretched back in his metal chair, the tip of his dick still wet with cum and smearing his boxers. His nose itched. "Excuse me," he said. Then sat up, retrieved his never-washed handkerchief from his jeans pocket, filled it with a tablespoon of snot and boogers, and re-pocketed it scrunched up in a ball. "My allergies are killing me-"

"Do you want to go inside?"

"Nah, it won't make a difference-"

"Oh." Bette dropped her eyes from Mark and rested them on her half-filled cup of coffee. "I want to tell you something-"

"Shoot-"

"I've never told anybody this. And I probably shouldn't tell you-"

"Why not?"

"Because there are lines teachers shouldn't cross with their students-"

"Bull-"

"But," Bette held up a tiny palm, "I feel so comfortable around you, and you're one of the best, most genuine people I know, and I...trust you, and I...have to get this off my chest-"

"Go ahead, I promise I won't say a word-"

Bette sighed. "It's about Jacob-"

"Oh-" Mark leaned forward, lightly plopping his elbows on the stone table, his chin in his hands.

"Yeah-"

"Well, whatever it is, I won't say a-"

"I know." Bette sighed. Then swirled her coffee with her plastic swirl stick. "Mark-"

"Yeah, I'm here-"

"I don't miss him-"

"What?"

"I don't miss him. Not one bit." Bette shivered in the 90-degree heat that couldn't bring sweat to either of their foreheads. "I'm even-"

"You're even-"

"glad he's gone. Does that make me a terrible person?"

"No." Mark watched Bette as her eyes rose back to his, their mud-brown the deepest brown he'd ever seen, almost black. "But why do you think that is?"

"He wasn't a very nice person-"

"Abusive?"

She continued looking into Mark's eyes, every now and again glancing around to ensure no one was eavesdropping, and nodded. "Not physically. But emotionally, mentally-"

"I kind of figured-"

"You did-"

"He was a cop. No offense, but cops are dicks-"

"And he was. A dick, that is. Very possessive. Jealous. Controlling. Everything was his way or no way at all."

"That's horrible. And no, that doesn't make you a bad person. You don't want him back. Big deal. It's not like you wanted him dead-"

Bette's eyebrows raised.

"Oh." Mark laughed. "Well, that still doesn't make you a bad person. I completely understand."

"I knew you would." Bette shook her head.

"What?"

"I mean, I do want someone in my life. Someone who is sweet and kind and respects me. And has the same interests: books, music, movies, art, the outdoors, snuggling, cuddling-" Bette laughed as Mark pointed to his chest. "Oh, you-"

"What?" He giggled.

"And you're my student-"

"Ah, labels, that's right-"

"And you're 18-"

"Oh, and I'm 18, an adult, I can get fucked up in a war and elect a shitty president, but I can't be a good boyfriend or husband or lover or whatever it's called -labeled- these days. Hmm, makes perfect sense-"

"Oh, Mark, that's not what I mean-"

Mark reached across the table and grasped Bette's free hand. "What do you mean?"

She sighed. And grinned. Then squeezed his hand back.