Kitty Petite...we don't have to like just date...

 

 

 Von B’s newly acquired ex-girlfriend and ever vacillating love of Patrick’s life interest Kitty Petite has long blond hair that skirts around her shoulders like a shawl and skin the color of sheet music. Her lips are perched into a perpetual spring bud and whenever she either blinks or blushes the lunar whites of her eyes cast a lingering refulgence against the gentle pasture of her rather prominent cheek bones.

 

David, home from Appleton Wisconsin, heavily hungover on heartache from some girl named Megan whom he said gave his heart an “epistolary orgasm.” The poor fuck. Always gift-wrapping his heart on a silver-latticed platter for some lass he hardly knows. Turning to Megan after his nuclear meltdown with Kitty Petite. David, the incorrigible philanderer. Poof. As in a cloud of magician’s smoke, Kitty Petite shows up one night in late August to ask for her stories back and to tell David that it’s over, over. Over as she said capital O over so I never want to see the U again, over period. Over.  Fifteen minutes later her sorority tanned station wagon reels into LUMS parking lot where an overly-anxious knee swaggering Pat (who has been, once again, lingering in LUMS all day, taking phone calls, composing callow poems over one French mistress who in this time-space continuum of the narrative still remains elusive, delineating terrorist espionage plots against Amber “steel like her heart” Steele act. ect ad infinitum) who is on his eighth carafe of coffee and who immediately pinches out his Marlborough Red as she enters the door, sucks on a breath lozenge, swipes his finger nails through his tussled three-day no wash hair and wastes absolutely no time whatsoever in conveying to Kristina his real candid and romantic proclivities towards her, his face an overtly caffeinated Jack-in-the-Box popping out with a thoroughly nicotine toothy wide-eyed grin audaciously proposing:

 

            “We don’t have to date. We can just like fuck!”