The Middleman | ongoing

16 | i'll settle for the f-bomb

16 | i'll settle for the f-bomb

Song: I Want You by Lindi Ortega

Depicted By: Brenda Song as Aleesia Meesang

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Quinn was silent.

So silent.

Funny how when the dude wouldn't shut the hell up, I was so ready to duct tape his mouth. And now when he was quiet? All I wanted was to hear him say something.

Anything, really.

I didn't care if it was stupid or the usual garbage coming out of mouth. As long as his lips were moving.

He didn't say shit even after storming off.

Not even with Tamara following after me to discreetly but really not-so-discreetly slip me some Viagra and giving me words of encouragement—which Quinn heard—that even her husband was like that.

He refused to utter a word when I went to the self-checkout, putting aside the Viagra and checking out the tampons.

Not even when I opened my wristlet to grab some cash to pay for it, and he just silently tapped away on the screen and then jammed his credit card in to my surprise and annoyance.

He didn't make any conversation as he searched for his sleek car in the parking lot.

Not even when he and I both couldn't find it.

And not even now when I was sitting adjacent to him in the passenger seat.

He didn't say a thing.

And I hated it a lot.

So I made it my mission to get him to crack open by the end of the car ride.

"Quinn?"

No response.

"Quinn, can you hear me?"

Nothing.

"So we're doing the silent treatment now, are we?"

Nada.

"Ugh, you're such a pathetic baby! But you know it makes sense since you bought those diapers after all..." I give him a sly grin, but I'm met with a pissed off nostril-flaring, front-facing Quinn.

"Quinnnnnn?"

The dickhead just drove, not even acknowledging me.

"C'mon, Quinnnnnn. It was a joke. A frickin' joke. I didn't know you would get so butthurt. What the hell?!" I groan in frustration.

Quinn's head is craned forward as he takes a turn. His whole body is engaged in the maneuver, and his face scrunches up in concentration. Everything about his body language from his squeezing grip on the wheel to his furrowed eyebrows suggests that this left turn yield at this signal is the biggest task he has ever undertaken in his life.

The dude's putting more effort and concentration into this one turn than I ever did during my whole fucking driving test at the DMV.

And that pisses me off. This intersection wasn't even the slightest bit busy, and Quinn never focused this much into his driving on the way to the store.

He was so mad at me that he was acting as if the most mundane thing as driving held more priority and interest to him than a conversation dealing with me.

"Fuck you," I mutter under my breath in a volume I'm certain Quinn will hear. "Talk to me when you grow up. Oh wait, that's never, Peter Pan!" I roll my eyes and glare at him.