Was it spite?
Was it anger?
Or was it the small, undignified, needy-girl ache of a woman who had paid an obscene sum of money for a piece of art and had walked off the gallery floor with three things: the art itself, the bill, and a very humiliating way Eros might've as well told her Be Gone Thot when he ran off avoiding her, it was so thorough it would still be footnoted at her funeral.
Aurelia took another long sip of champagne and decided not to decide.
The pleasure of an obsession of this calibre was the menu. You didn't pick a feeling. You sampled.
She was on her fourth glass, and all the feelings were getting their turn at the table, and the want was the rowdiest of the bunch—sat in the corner, ordering more wine, refusing to leave.
The cabin hummed under her at thirty-eight thousand feet.
The boy was seventeens at best according to Senithe and came from nothing like literal being thrown in trash can and lockers... yet the audacity!
