Sacred Seven Decades

The Sacred Seven Decades – Part One

Gushing on to a mesmerizing full catch of 'Happily Ever After' tricks, the startling virtues of beautiful hearts, and the fierce fight for childhood dreams and wishes as the conspired universe thunders in without warning!

Toronto. March 20, 2019. Wednesday.

Warning: I would find her today. My heart grits would crack through a piercing challenge, and my entire life would swerve into a staggering turn… in NINE DAYS!

Ace Hansel

Free Lesbian Fiction Online, The Sacred Seven Decades

“It looks like serious puke,” the Luster attendant examines the brown stains smeared across my white satin top, judging my ritzy reputation off my pile of dry-clean drop-off. “I’m not sure if they can remove it, though,” she continues, looking away.

Why do I feel like — making pasta for you now? Or fluffy pancakes!

“Well, I hope they would,” I reply, resting my half-emptied cup of coffee on the counter, “‘cause I’m flying back home to Vancouver Tuesday next week, so will you please — just punch it in?”

She pouts and bites her lip. Oh my goodness, woman. You make me tingle. Don’t ever make a move out of your oblivious dithers there, or I would turn myself into a disfigured dumdum in no time. “Three tops.” She flicks away on the computer keyboard, eyes glued to the screen. “Two suits and a pair of denim pants — Uh — Monday, okay?”

“Today’s Wednesday,” I complain. “Can’t they get it done in a couple of days instead? And if I could — pick it up this Friday afternoon — that would be fantastic.”

She rolls her eyeballs away. Hmm. Charming! “Fine,” she sighs. “It’s just that — it’s been really swamped with loads of priorities all week long, but I’ll let them know, anyways. Name?”

“Ace Hansel,” I gasp.

“Phone number?” she asks in a brisk tone. I enunciate it to her, then she prints off the receipt and hands it to me. “Have a nice day.”

“You, too.” And I stomp away.

“Miss Ace Hansel!” she calls out.

Her gentle voice bops right through my dormant heart. I pause and turn around. “Is there anything else?”

“You forgot your coffee,” she says, fixing something under the desk, still avoiding my presence.

I walk back to the counter and snatch off my morning ego trip. “Thanks.” And I zoom out with a slap of overflowing cramped glow. In front of a lovely diva who recoils my stomach and sucks me into wonders that I wish to dive in.

Let us freeze for a moment and allow me to rant about my cursed and hollow existence.

The magic formula for human conception: symmetry, grace, and synchronized moods shoved into one splash of passion. And my parents DID JUST THAT! Thank you very much, Mom and Dad, for blessing me with — this — pulchritude – (Oh, god. Pardon my arrogance. I’m sorry!), which grants me with all the delightful privileges that this fiendish life has to offer — except for — true lllooovvveee!

Oh, the adoring eyes have no idea how mutilated I have been inside, like off-key jingles swinging out of adverts and rapping away instead — with abhorrent rhymes that spell hypocrisy and denial.

Relationship stat: one. Stacey Peckinham, a striking photographer. Three hideaway years. Relationship status: engaged to my boss — Alexandra Avery, a famous Vancouver socialite, who owns luxury clothing brand stores in the city. Relationship signature: DISCREET! — Blah! Okay — not in love — just in love with the idea of being abducted by a heart that throttles all the true-love-drug-tinges inside of me — Just like the entrancing rhythm reach of All of Lush lyrics and melody tickling my dancing veins since I was twelve years old — And well-heeled Alex shuns away from the 1953 song with a dreadful puff! I know — I must be a desperate 30-year-old sapphic fowl for plunging myself into this hitch!

Until my major conundrum is toppled off by the sight of the lovely diva — who works at a dry-clean service in downtown Toronto — loathing all women like me! The walnuts as I prefer to call them. Why can’t she just see me as a walnut, anyway — and flag off the nutshell surface? Argh!

Thanks, Mom and Dad! Really!

There has to be something dreamy and special in her that I must find out before I ditch Queen city. Or I would wonder about it for the rest of my walnut life.

All right. Should I keep sitting on the fence or —

JUMP OFF???!!!

Darn it. I’m only in town for the grand opening of Alex’s new branch. The job is done, and now I can prowl away — Back into Luster — to bug the lovely diva — to flap my tenacious wings. But wait! She hates me! With every yielding chemical flying off her revolting principles. Or maybe she’s straight. Regardless — I must escape into my moxie to sneak off her truths. But how am I supposed to do that when she wouldn’t even look at me???!!!

My humdrum day scope is all about jiggled romping around the city — Waterfront, the Aquarium, Nathan Phillips Square, and lounging at a quaint coffee shop. As the lovely diva’s imaginary habitation has been distracting my thoughts, like a shrine of love lockets blocking highways all over the world. Argh! I might as well just knock my head against a concrete wall to wake up. Or worse, fly into a volcano somewhere in Hawaii to be scorched alive.

That’s it! I have to swirl away in the name of universe itches. I have to be an accomplished human. I have to accept the alarming fear: the possibility of finding my All of Lush true love in the middle of my discreet engagement to a vicious — mmmonster — who happens to be my boss. Though it is a disgraceful walnut testimony that I must grip on. With intestinal fortitude. What have I got to lose? Uh — Shoo! Here we go!

Only my ritzy reputation — (Though I couldn’t care less about it! Really!). The job that I have loved for three stunning years. The vicious monster, who has tricked me into a — relationship dungeon, with her obsessed pursuits and fake quirks just to roost up my cockling fears. Goddammit. Doesn’t anybody worry about something meaningful anymore? Why can’t I just be an orzo instead of that fancy gnocchi served at a high-end restaurant in Paris or New York?

I swing by Luster for a pretend follow-up. Thank god, she’s still in. She catches me with a quick look while stapling tags on a pile of shirts. “Hi,” I say.

“Yep,” she replies, taking her task seriously, “guaranteed pick-up on Friday. I got it.”

“It’s Ace Hansel,” I remind her.

“I know,” she snaps, looking down, still devoting her attention to a yecchy clothing.

“You know what?” I grouse. “I find it rude that you don’t look at your customers.”

She freezes and lifts her face, then we look into each other’s quizzical eyes for a moment that festers my heart’s loon. “I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I didn’t mean to be rude, really.”

“It’s okay.” I extend my hand for a twitchy formal introduction. “I’m Ace Hansel.”

She meets it with a reluctant wiggle. “Dylan Dawson.”

“Nice to meet you, Dylan Dawson,” I say, smiling. And she shrinks her shivering hand away.

“Nice to meet you, too,” she mumbles.

“How has your day been?” I strike off with a casual conversation.

“Just another day in pathetic paradise,” she answers.

“Hmm. I could say the same thing about my day as well.”

“Cool.”

“So — are you off soon — or –”

“In about 45 minutes.”

“Good. Um — are you in tomorrow?” I know. This is me — being a burnt marshmallow. Suck it up, Miss Ace Hansel. The fuddy-duddy clock must stop ticking — NOW!

She is amused. “I work Mondays through Fridays. What’s your deal?”

“Just having a conversation,” I lie.

“No,” she insists. “You got a deal slinging around there.”

Okay, lovely diva. Here it goes. Honesty flag. Argh! “I just find you revolting and intriguing, that’s all.”

“I like revolting,” she giggles.

“That’s a euphemism for –”

“– prick –”

“God,” I smirk. “You got me there.”

“No, it’s cool,” she replies. “Well, I gotta finish this before I take off. Is there anything else that I can do for you?”

“Nothing more,” I sigh. “Thanks.”

“See you on Friday,” she says and plunges back into her work load.

“Okay. See ya.” And I yank myself out the door.

Oh, god. I want to spatter out heartbreaking liquid jolts to express disappointment and degradation. I can only wish that she would be just like my sweet darlings at work, then it would have been a fingers-snap to make her see me beyond the walnut facade.

Wait a minute. I’m the walnut, for god’s sake. A kind, good-humored, boring walnut. The walnut that any female can vibe with. And that is all it takes for the lovely diva to notice me!

I brave my way back into Luster. She is still stuffed with the same laundry swamp, and her flabbergasting eyes shoot through me, along with a shuddering motion. “What’s my deal?” I bolt on, “I’m a walnut.”

She bursts out laughing. “Pardon me?”

“I’m a walnut,” I repeat. “You see me otherwise, I know. But inside — I’m a walnut.”

“Where is this walnut introduction going, Miss Ace Hansel?” she cackles.

“Ace,” I pant. “Please, call me, Ace.” My jumbo walnut flash-on is causing her uptight veins to crack up. I have triumphed. Whew. “I know this might sound ridiculous — with all the humiliating blurs circling around here, but –”

“Coffee?” she suspects, interrupting me.

And she can plough into my mind?! “Is that realistic enough?” I say. “I mean, you know, ‘cause we’ve just met — and –”

“And I’m a prick,” she quips.

“More like, a diva, really,” I mutter.

“That’s comparative enough,” she admits. “No, not exactly. I’ll take that back. Diva is when you’ve got your sassy hat going, and you scare the hell out of everybody. That’s diva. And I’m not like that at all.”

“You were a diva to me this morning,” I counter.

“I’d only do that once attacked by — somebody — like you,” she reasons.

“Hey,” I retaliate, “I did not attack you. You attacked me with instant hostility upon our first eye contact that you zinged away with a pout and a lot of eye-rolling.”

“Because I have a problem with — beautiful — hearts, all right?” she confesses, quavering.

I smile. And that has just settled my stings. I can win this. “I’m just a walnut, Dylan.”

“Okay!” she yelps. “Are you for real, though? I mean, the coffee thing?”

“I galloped back in here to reveal my walnut crack to you, didn’t I?” I reply.

“You are unbelievable.” She checks her wristwatch. “I’ve got 21 minutes left. If you can’t wait that much longer, you can parade your way outta here. Again. And just come back on Friday to pick up your laundry.”

“Dylan,” I sigh, “do I have to take the walnut pledge to you again? Really. You can make a big deal out of it, but I’m gonna be waiting for your diva thug outside, so we can get on with the coffee gesture. How’s that?”

“Miss Ace Hansel,” she grunts, “you are just about to murder my life.”

“Hurry up already!” I order her.

“Okay okay,” she snaps. “Wait. Are you doing this ‘cause you haven’t found a friend in the city? ‘Cause you’re bored, and you need a local guide? That’s why you’re preying on someone like me instead? Someone who’s plain, vulnerable, and harmless? Someone who works at disgusting places like this — where people like you dump their glorious and extravagant fabric?”

“Dylan, I swear to god,” I plead, “I would never introduce my walnut crack to you if I were here just to mess around or prey on a local guide. I’ve told you — your revolting charms have shackled me up, flying me back in here to attack your diva-ish whimsy. Does that sound convincing enough?”

“Oh my god,” she mutters, fazed. “You really are about to murder my life, Miss Ace Hansel.”

“Ace! Please, call me, Ace.”

“So what’s this walnut deal, anyway?”

“Claim your walnut attacks later. I’ll wait for you outside. Clinched?”

“Claimed.”


“So what makes you smile and happy, Dylan?” I ask the moment we’ve sat down at a coffee shop nearby Luster.

“You really are for real, aren’t you?” She sips her coffee, eyeing me under her dainty nose.

“It’s just a random question,” I defend my attack. “Just take it as a friendly stride. C’mon.”

“Well — I don’t have a — conventional answer — to that –” she murmurs, faltering — “It’s something — Um — it’s just between me — and my childhood — daydreams and dreams — so –”

Oh, god. Childhood daydreams and dreams! My heart pinch is on a sublime wheeze — even more critical than the romantic first glance energy panic! “Try me, Dylan,” I insist. “My answer could be just as unconventional as yours. So what’s hidden in your childhood daydreams and dreams? What’s in there that makes you smile and happy?”

“It’s embarrassing, but –” she sighs. “Anyway, it’s a — castle in the air dance with a sad princess. To a beautiful song. A very old song. All of Lush.”

And it stops my ticker in an instant. There it goes. I have surrendered. Without a chancy doubt. In my heart and mind. The ultimate epiphany of my happiness quest. Right here. Sitting across the table. Who is clueless about her enchanting effect. On my walnut.

Is this why my pumps have given in dead on? Is this how the universe animates its tricks? Is this how destiny gushes its truth into one’s yearning creeps?

I sit back and smile at nowhere. The wistful smile that aches my lower abdomen. I look at her, and she slashes me with a dissolving ogle. “Whose version?” I ask. “There’s a whole lot of them out there, but — which one? Ocean Lawrie’s? Lou Melvyn’s? Or Zea Schiavione and Kai Cannon’s? I love Zea Schiavione and Kai Cannon’s, though. It’s got the most forever heart spice in it. Don’t you?”

She drops her jaw, stunned! “Eeexxxcccuuussseee mmmeee???!!!”

Yeah. With a big-sharp-sparkly-metal knife slicing my fragile heart to tidbits. My provoking backbone is set for life. As I’m claiming my true love wish — that I whispered to the kind universe when I was twelve years old — right about NOW!!! “It’s my childhood wish-scape dance, too. With a prayer of finding my true love attached to it.”

She almost lurches off her chair. “Miss Ace Hansel! No no no no no! This is scary! Too scary!” She gulps down her coffee. “Goodness. I think I’ve just burnt down my throat.” She checks the time. “I gotta go. Thanks for coffee.”

“But — we just got here,” I panic.

“I can’t do this, Ace,” she presses. “This whole thing scares the hell out of me!”

“It scares the hell out of my spines, too,” I sass back. “Do you have any idea how many pounds of guts I had to pull back there just to grab your attention? I don’t know, Dylan, but for some conjuring reason, I just knew deep down in my grotty walnut cracks that I had to do it, or hot-blooded sleepless nights would terrorize me. So here I am. Without regard for any sophisticated flushes that attacked you this morning. Would you be kind enough to handle that?”

She calms down. “Okay. Though it would be a crushing hand-full for me to take on, but — whatever — Sure. We can be friends.”

Friends. Yeah. I’m already heartbroken. And my engagement is buffeting on my daring virtues with shame! I’ll worry about its integrity later on. As I am here to herald a wish-come-true, All of Lush, tormented on a lion-earthed pad. “Sounds good,” I shrug.

She slips out her cell phone from her backpack. “I’ve just gotta call someone.”

“No problem,” I reply. She flicks away, and — my ringtone busts into air, with a strange phone number flashing on the screen. “Oh.”

“That’s me,” she says and hangs up.

“Oh!” I yelp, thrilled.

“I snatched it off from your file while your walnut was patiently waiting for me outside,” she confesses. “Now we’re friends.”

“Oh,” I utter in sullen whisper.

“Ace,” she says, “I’ve never done this before.”

“Me neither.”

“Asking a chick like me for coffee? Of course, you haven’t. God, who are you kidding? I’m pretty sure the entire country would go heart hysterical over you. And darn it, I’m spritzing like an idiot here without pride to flaunt off. I’m renting a cheap basement suite, I work for a dry-cleaning company, I’m alone, I listen to jazz music, and I write about anything that makes me feel better just to comfort my heart. That’s — the excruciating picture of my life. So don’t bash at me — like I’m damaging myself here and spurting about my self-esteem drama!”

“All right, lovely diva,” I challenge her. “Wanna go for a rotten-story swap? Here’s mine — stirring out of the walnut nutshell. Ready?”

“Like — it would blow me out of proportion,” she sneers.

“I work at clothing stores, I spill coffee all over my tops when I’m on a rush, I don’t really have friends except for my sweet darlings, I watch crappy videos, I read sappy books, I gobble up spicy pasta in the morning, and I — hand wash my underwear. Now — let’s talk about beauty and life –” And true love! And happiness!

“Sweet darlings?”

“The girls at work,” I mutter.

“You’re still all that though,” she judges on. “It wouldn’t really matter what you’d tell me. You’re still — the drop-dead-gorgeous — chick — that I dread — Far from my bamboos — But anyway — thank you for the honest toast. It was — refreshing — somehow.”

“I’m just a walnut, Dylan,” I insist. “Just a goddamn walnut cracking its way out, wishing for happiness.”

She gazes at me, tearing up. “Ace –”

“I caught that,” I dump my misery on the table — with a self-effacing tweak.

“Trust me,” she replies, “it wasn’t pity. I felt your heart at first glance. That’s why I couldn’t look at you.”

I want to hold you now! “Dylan –”

“And it made me feel bad,” she mumbles. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I say. “So — can we do this again tomorrow?”

“I guess,” she sighs — with a nervous rouse.

“Just don’t attack me with the drop-dead-gorgeous tirade, though,” I warn her.

“And don’t attack me with the lovely diva confab either,” she retorts.

“Clinched,” I reply.

“Claimed. And it’s Zea Schiavione and Kai Cannon’s version,” she professes, “is the answer. You may trace it all the way to my childhood history, spending summers with my grandparents on their farm in Alberta.”

God, forgive me! She’s a complete stranger — I know I know I know! But it would be foolish of me not to claim my true love wish — even just for the time being — or perhaps — courage would develop itself sooner — to make me rise the truth banner — for a liberating change of a lifetime! “Would you please — have dinner with me tonight?”

“You’re begging,” she replies.

“‘Cause I don’t want you to think I’m an aggressive puck.”

“You are an aggressive puck.”


“The waiter was looking at you like –” Dylan says over dinner at a cozy Italian restaurant, “– are you sure you’re having dinner with your personal assistant? Right here? At our rococo restaurant? Or maybe her guts are itching for some fast food takeout instead. Wouldn’t you wanna double check it with her first or what?

“He wasn’t looking at me like that,” I protest. “Stop brewing.”

“Of course he was,” she insists. “He let out a soft snort, for crying out loud. I heard it, and it provoked my human buzzer.”

“How’s the food?” I scuttle away from her rhetoric.

“The potatoes in this pasta taste like the potatoes from my grandmother’s kitchen,” she replies. “And I can’t believe this bowl is worth like 24 kilos of potatoes that I can get from that Asian store nearby my place. My goodness. This is ridiculous.”

“We’ll go to your favorite restaurant next time then,” I suggest.

“I don’t have one, Ace. I go for random stuff. Pastries, pudding, veggies, pizza, salad — anything edible — but meat! Though fish and dairies are fine once in a while. Oh, and cookies, too. As long as it revitalizes me, that’s all that matters, really. And I can get on with my day.”

“Which one are you? Potato or carrot?”

“Potato. Boring, ordinary, and bland. You?”

“Hold on. Don’t attack me yet. You’re not boring, and certainly not bland either. You’re revolting and a diva. Ordinary? Nope. You’re an old soul big crunch. You can’t be ordinary.”

“We’ve just met,” she stretches. “How could you say that? Look at me, Ace. I look like I’m about to clean your house, for god’s sake. And that waiter thinks so, too. So don’t comfort my potato knickknack here just to make me feel better.”

“Oh, please, Dylan,” I argue. “All of Lush has given me one in a billion ratio. In our generation, at least. That’s a huge deal. In an old soul big crunch kind of way that none of those walnuts out there would ever foxtrot along.”

“Yeah. But that’s not important. This –” — she points into her face — “– is important. This exterior dressing that empowers all the status glides.”

“You’re pretty and interesting.” I take a sip of my iced tea. “What are you so insecure about?”

“I don’t know why you see me that way,” she replies. “I find it appalling that you’re so eager to make friends with someone like me when I don’t have any caliber bolstering out of my life situation here.”

“I’m a carrot,” I say, leaning forward. “Not only a walnut, but a carrot. And not just a carrot, but a baby carrot. Do you know what that means?”

“You’re only soap sudding me up.”

“I wear clothes that I like ‘cause they give me wonderful thoughts. Like, when my parents took me to Disneyland for the first time. I wear makeup ‘cause it impresses the Ace Hansel ritzy reputation — the business thrill Ace Hansel ritzy reputation. And I wear my hair down ‘cause it’s the only pride I’ve got that never lies. That’s what a baby carrot means.”

She gapes at me. “Well, you’re not bad for a baby carrot at all.”

“Thank you,” I respond. “Have I shut off your insecurities yet?”

“Claimed.”

“Clinched.”

“I just don’t wanna show myself to you once a pimple sits on my face, so –” she blasts.

“Oh my goodness, babe,” I giggle. “I could help you with that. Don’t worry.”

“No. That would be embarrassing. Just stay away once it pops on. I’ll let you know, anyway.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Dylan. I like what I see. ‘Cause it makes me feel something.”

“Like what?” she cowers.

“Like,” I sigh, “I wanna have the All of Lush dance with you.”

“Ace,” she utters in a warning pitch, “can we please not mention the song anymore? It’s creeping me out both ways.”

“And you think you’re the only one?” I bounce back. “Claim the flashback, Dylan, but I already wanted to be closer to you even before the All of Lush revelation. What does that mean in your books?”

“It means we can be good friends,” she replies, bursting with self-possession, “and I can be your local guide here in Toronto anytime. Yeah. No problem. I’m all for it.”

“Well,” I gasp, “in my books, it means — I would like to get to know you more.”

“Sure. I can be great friends with a walnut and baby carrot. You’re cool, anyway.”

Dear true love wish: my crushed walnut heart must only be confined in my formidable truth — the discreet engagement! And I’m cheating on the vicious monster — with the lovely diva who refuses to have the All of Lush dance with me! I might as well just kiss happiness goodbye and skylark away with my hair down — so I would have something worthwhile to share with the world. “I’d just want you to be more comfortable around me,” I declare. “It’s one of the top requirements to make this whole thing work for both of us.”

“Ace, I’m not stupid. I know what you’re trying to achieve out of this. But I gotta tell you now — Don’t be stupid. Because you do not belong anywhere in my world. You only belong in my beautiful dream. And even if a miracle would muscle in to lock us up in the All of Lush dance, I would still be haunted by fears of losing you anytime any day. We’d both be miserable, and then I would end up killing myself or something. So let’s just jump into the safe net and get to know each other under friendship rules. Claimed?”

“Clinched,” I gulp down my weeps.

She slips out a 100-dollar bill from her wallet and rests it on the table. “There’s my share.”

“Dylan, it’s on me,” I flit up. “What are you doing? Keep it.”

“It will shut off one of my screaming insecurities,” she reasons. “Please. Allow me. Okay?” She sips her drink and rises. “I’m sorry. Just beat from work. I’ll buzz you in as soon as I get home. Thank you for the wonderful evening, walnut.” She picks up her backpack and dashes out of the restaurant.

Dear true love wish: do not make me cry! Goddammit!


I throw myself into my murky hotel room and release the ugliest cry. I should have just ignored my dirty laundry this morning instead. I should have just — But no! It was meant to happen. We were meant to meet. Preordained by the song that binds true love and happiness. I must fight for it! I must claim my true love wish! I must make her mine! But —

HOW???

As I attempt to press Dylan’s number, Alex whoops through.

Oh, god. I am a criminal. A sham. A humongous beastly shark that bites off the innocent sapphic hearts. I am a teeny-tiny town — so tiny — that cannot be found on the country’s map anymore. Even with the aid of a sorcerous magnifying glass.

I wipe off my tears and compose a chin-up voice. “Hey, you!” I pick up her call.

“Hey, goddess,” she whispers through my ear. “Please, don’t relish Toronto that much. You haven’t texted me all day.”

“I’m sorry,” I reply and plunge into the sofa chair. “I just got distracted by its — dreamy — rush — or whatever.”

“Vancouver is the dreamy rush,” she utters.

“I guess,” I gasp, then feel my head, as Dylan’s silhouette dances in front of my dreamy eyes.

“What’s the matter?” she wonders. “You sound cold stiff.”

“Migraine. Sorry.”

“Take an aspirin then.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“What did you do all day long, anyway?”

“Oh. Just out and about.”

“Out and about, and then all of a sudden, you don’t feel like talking to me anymore? What the fuck is going on?”

“Alex –” — I always have to find ways to invigorate her bed of roses. As she also shares Dylan’s fears — losing me anytime any day — “– I miss –” — Oh god. I cannot pretend anymore!

She languishes. “I don’t know why I have this weird feeling of you running away from me right now. I swear to god, Ace. I swear to god. I’d hang myself to death.”

“I’ll be home soon,” I say, bringing down my tears. “Stop being so dramatic. God. Your kick is too much to bear, Alex. It’s killing me.”

“All right,” she says. “Listen, there’s going to be a formal grand opening party this Friday night –”

“How many grand opening parties do you have to throw in, anyway? Monday was already a splash. There is no need for a formal one anymore.” It’s jeopardizing my Dylan moments! That’s why I’m under protest! I am so sorry!

“It’s for great luck,” she yelps. “Why are you pissed?”

“‘Cause it was not stamped on the original plan. I’ve already got something else in mind, and I don’t wanna miss it.”

“Ace, please tell me you’re not screwing around behind my back.”

I have to divulge a droplet of Dylan bombshell — at least! “I’ve made a new friend. She works nearby the hotel, and she’s fun. I’d rather hang out with her than exchange fake hugs and kisses in an upscale room packed with walnuts. Would that be okay?”

“Your enormous love for humanity is getting worse everyday,” she fires up, “and I can’t fucking deal with it anymore! Now you’re making friends with some — bimbo? You better nip this in the bud right now, or I’m snatching you outta there in no time! You got that?”

“Alex,” I rage, “I’ve just met the one that I’d like to dance All of Lush with.”

“Your flaky — psychotic – All of Lush — phantom?”

My grits have just been detonated. “That’s right, Alex. My flaky psychotic All of Lush phantom. Also known as my true love wish. Also known as destiny. Also known as happiness. And her name is Dylan. Now we can break off the engagement, so I can let my hair down forever, because this walnut is already tired of tying her hair up to suit your desires. Am I fired yet? Good!”

Poor Alex. Exploding into a wail. “Okay okay! You can hang out with her! Just don’t leave me!”

“Alex,” I weep, “I — respect you. And I will always be there for you. But I’m already tired. I have to let my hair down now. It’s about time.”

“No, Ace!” she objects. “You are not going to leave me! You’d be crazy enough to do that! I’ve given you everything, for fuck sakes! My heart! A name! Luxuries! Reputation! Every fucking thing in the world! So don’t you dare spit on me like this, goddammit!”

“And I never asked for any of it,” I reply. “It was us making silly breakfast and catching butterflies that — that –” — no! You spruced me up with unrelenting fears! That’s why I had to dump myself into your disgusting schemes!– “– not the glitz that you’ve given me. Well, I can’t do it anymore. I’m not brave enough for this anymore. And I’ve just realized it now.”

“You can’t do this to me, Ace!” she howls into my ear. “I shall see you tomorrow!”

“Alex, please!” I beg. “I’ll see you once I get home. I just need my own time right now. Then we’ll talk — Please –?”

“Okay!” she yelps. “Just don’t leave me!”

“Good night, Alex.” And I hang up.


The Sacred Seven Decades – Part Two

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