boundless

hilarious

I watched a giggling Kate intently as she scrolled through the first few pages of what I had written so far. She smiled as she looked over at me. "Carter, this is my third time reading it over, and it's really great."

I held back a smile and looked down at the arm of the chair I was sitting in. "Yeah, but I still haven't come up with a name for the main character."

She shrugged. "You've got plenty of time to figure that out. Besides, it's hilarious."

"It's not that funny," I remarked.

"Okay, then I guess I'll have to read some of these lines to you because they're fucking hysterical," She insisted as she scrolled back to the top of the page.

"Alright, the first few lines are literally proof that it's hilarious:

[INT. A group of teenagers sit around on a gym floor in a circle, holding hands, seemingly involuntarily, while two teachers stand behind them]

Girl: (to the entire group) What's one fact about me? Well, I have an otic scab on the back of my ear.

Girl [V.O.]: Lie.

Girl: I haven't seen a doctor about it, so I hope it's not contagious. (looks directly at the student next to her with wide eyes),"

She read, laughing.

"Does this mean that this girl is too personable?" I asked her. "If you like her that much?"

She looked at me for a moment before she shook her head. "No. I don't think so. I mean, she's only really personable to me, which would be the audience, and you obviously want the audience to identify with her a little bit. I think you've gotten it across to the audience that she's a bit of a creep."

I nodded. "That's true, but I feel like if the audience likes her too much they won't see her as being a somewhat despicable person."

"Yeah, but that's what happens in real life. People admire despicable people," She replied.

"Maybe I should just write a book instead. It would be called Write Good: How To," I joked.

"You know, you can do that thing where you write short stories and get paid for it," She said. "I know a friend from college that sends her stories to newspapers and they publish them, then pay her."

I raised my eyebrows at her. "I don't write short stories," I informed her.

"Why not?" She asked as she shut the laptop and got up from my bed.

"I don't have anything to write about," I reasoned.

She smiled as she straddled me. "Sure you do. You're in the process of writing about something right now," She replied, putting her hands on my shoulders.

"I forgot to clarify: I don't have anything else to write about," I retorted.

"Way to be stubborn," She proclaimed quietly as her lips brushed against my neck. "I think you could be a damn good writer if you wanted to be."

"I write too much already," I said as I breathed in her scent. She smelled like vanilla, and I smelled like cigarettes.

I took one of her hands in my own. Her lips grazed my own as her chest rose and fell heavily against mine. An abnormal heat ran between us in contrast to the stormy weather outside. I caught her upper lip between my own, and everything became a whirlwind of lips and tongues moving against each other and hands moving to places they should or maybe shouldn't have been.