Delilah
I know I’m not supposed to be observing Hank anymore. I’m aware. I’m in therapy. There are rules. Boundaries. Entire goddamn worksheets printed on pastel paper for emotional homework.
But here’s the thing.
I wasn’t intending to observe Hank. I was minding my own extremely well-documented business, which just so happened to include surveilling Chad. Because there’s no restraining order from him yet, and let’s be real, if the system didn’t want me to vibe-check my enemies, maybe it shouldn’t have given me a driver’s license and a glovebox full of snacks.
And why the actual fuck would Hank be helping Chad?
They don’t even know each other. The only strand of social DNA binding those two sentient khakis together is me. So unless they’re attending a weekly Support Group for Men Who’ve Been Emotionally Railgunned by Delilah, complete with complimentary tissues and a slideshow titled “Signs You May Have Fucked a Tsunami,” this meetup makes zero sense.
Hank was supposed to be done with me. Done-done. Done enough to invent some creative punishment therapy clause like he’s a Dollar Store God doling out divine judgment in PDF form. So what is this? Post-breakup HR check-in? Emotional Quality Assurance?
Nah. He misses me. That’s what this is.
He thought he wanted silence and smoothies and now he’s realized yoga bitch has the personality of a sad houseplant andthe sex appeal of boiled rice paper left in the sun. He traded down. And now I’m too busy getting throat-fucked by destiny and three men hotter than most felony charges.
I sip my iced coffee, which is mostly just coffee-flavored sadness at this point, and adjust my pink hat to maximum stealth mode. Yes, it’s glittery. No, I’m not sorry.
Chad’s over there playing fucking mini golf. On a Sunday.
Chad.
Mini golf.
On a Sunday.
It’s like watching a frat ghost haunt its own leisure time.
Not that mini golf doesn’t have its place. I’m not against it. Actually, I want to take the boys. Jett trying to swing a tiny plastic club while seething? Benji trying to fold his linebacker ass down far enough to tap-tap a pink ball? Rhys overanalyzing the themed obstacles like a cursed analyst decoding symbolism in a child’s nightmare?
Yes. Yes to all of it. We could make mini golf filthy. We could make it a contact sport with whips and ball gags and maybe a tiny trophy for “Most Unholy in the Windmill Tunnel.” I’d suck cock at the ninth hole under the lighthouse. We’d get banned from every putt-putt establishment in the tri-county area.
Family fun.
But back to the fuckery at hand.
Chad and Hank are walking the green like this is a casual business brunch of betrayal. They lean in close. They laugh. Their little manclaws graze while they pass the tiny golf pencil back and forth like it’s not a dick-shaped baton in their homoerotic relay of betrayal.
They have nothing in common. Unless…
Oh.
Unless they’re fucking the same woman.
Could Bendy Bitch be the link? Are they sharing her like my men share me?
Gross.
What kind of community dick lifestyle is that? They will both have restraining orders against me once Chad’s goes through, and a shared yoga girlfriend?
That’s unholy. That’s uncouth. That’s not even a love triangle, that’s a shapeless blob of poor decisions with a green juice center.
Although… she’s not here.
Maybe she doesn’t know.
Maybe Hank and Chad are lovers. Secret ones. This is their little weekend rendezvous. Mini golf and muffled handjobs behind the plastic volcano. And Hank wears a tank top and calls Chad “Daddy.” Maybe he’s the little spoon now. And they do weird mirror affirmations together after sex.
