Art is Dead

“Oh, and in this cool anime, I watch… ” Jessica droned on.

Simon had stopped listening a while ago, but there was no point in ruining Jessica’s perfect Valentine’s Day. Simon was less interested in the painfully boring play-by-play commentary on his girlfriend’s day and more interested in a pink sock lying in the middle of a patch of grass.

The crisp green was glazed over with residue from the morning chill, looking comparable to a skinnier Guy Fieri with more personality. Unlike the grass, the sock was neither ice-tipped nor crisp; it was soggy and dull, like Guy Fieri’s god-awful hor d’oeuvres.

It was out of place, like bacon covered in various lukewarm food items. “Bacon covered in various lukewarm food items” also happened to be the hors d’oeuvre that Jessica had ordered for Simon without his consent.

Jessica stared keenly into Simon’s soul as he took his first glance at the atrocity. She scanned for any sign of dislike that she could capitalize on to release the tropical storm of the century — her overall view of their relationship onto the barren tundra that was Simon’s innocent perception of their seven-month adventure.

“I knew it.”

“Knew what, exactly?” Simon replied, a pinch of fear in his voice.

“All of it. You hate me. You despise me. When you look at me, you can’t hold back your gag reflex. I’m the worst! This relationship is over!” Jessica stormed out of the small, cozy cafe, knocking over the wooden stool she was sitting on.

As per usual, Simon wasn’t listening. He had now cast his gaze on a wilted rose that was sprawled on the sidewalk, a seemingly meticulously placed metaphor that concludes a fictional, contrived story.


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