The only good thing she got from Mitch was the recipe for kale chips.

Step one, put the kale in a bowl. Drizzle olive oil on top, douse with Cajun seasoning and cumin. Bake at 450 degrees or until sizzling and crispy.

Bee could eat an entire cookie sheet of kale chips for dinner, one burnt green flake after another, salty and spicy and burning her lips gently as she popped them in her mouth.

He held no other redeeming quality that she knew of and she couldn’t think of her 48 hours with him without her insides turning over on themselves.

Thanks for the kale chips and the repulsive memories I was all too happy to forget, Mitch.

Well, the recipe for kale chips and how with his help it took only half the time to unload her car the first time she moved.

Oh, and for cooking me dinner that one time before I served up my body for you to be gobbled up like dessert.

His presence was underwhelming yet obtrusive. His constant snorting, his inability to speak at an appropriate volume or monitor his alcohol intake. The way he grabbed at her body when she walked by and the bruises his palms left when he smacked the soft skin of her behind.

The 9 missed calls between 1:30 and 3am, the drunken text messages and the wonderings about who she was with and why even before they met in person for the first time. The balding spot on the back of his head and the fact he was only 1 inch taller than her and fucked like a jackhammer.

It made her cringe, the thought her lips once touched his.

But at the time she was high off the flattery and the attention and seeing a man’s name next to a text message on her screen again.

She was wanted.

He became an idea, a fascination. Proof she could get something she wanted, proof she could be scandalous and proof she wasn’t just a Good Girl polishing her too-tight halo.

And then, just as suddenly, he became a revulsion. He became the reason she stopped swiping right.

Never again, Mitch. Never again. But thanks for the kale chips.

Maybe feeling deeply is just that — my “thing”. I could give up the low lows but I wouldn’t feel the high highs then either — the pressure that builds behind my throat until I almost choke on my need to both simultaneously laugh and cry for no other reason than this — I feel like it.

You tried to tell me that’s what you loved about me — my inability to be neutral, my outbursts and my spontaneity, followed just as quickly by a passive-aggressive shut down and fervent need to plan and control my every hour, and yours, too. We both knew you were lying.

Day No. 10 of my #100DayProject. 100 days of fiction, 100 days of story. Watch the story unfold here, day by day.

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