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[poetryslamming]

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[reiterated]

[ He turns his attention away from her, gaze fixing on the slice of pizza sitting innocuously on his plate. It's a fatty piece of food for sure; cheese in abundance and meat from A through to Z, the poor tomato sauce squashed underneath. He can't remember when he last had fastfood, food in itself is expensive enough by far and buying it pre-made? Please. He may not be homeless anymore but a man's got to budget according to his vices and Timm's vices happen to be cigarettes, drugs and paint. In no particular order of importance. ]

Wouldn't that just delight you, my darling? Mister Popular. [ He smiles, just a hint of edge behind his words, though he isn't trying to be mean - or demeaning. She did, after all, bring him beer. ] Just don't let anyone call you Daddy, I mean, ever. There was never a fouler word with fouler associations.

[ Another look at his pizza, contemplatively almost. Then, unceremoniously, he folds it up, three times, rolls it the last bit of the way, cheese and meet escaping onto his plate and fingers, but whatever. In it goes - all of it at once - he's got a big mouth, after all, combined with a lot of training.

The instant the different flavours hit his taste buds, he starts to feel full. ]

[poetryslamming]

[ Timm eats like she imagines he sucks cock, not that she really wants to make the comparison, but it's difficult not to as he folds the pizza slice up in something akin to half its original size and stuffs the whole piece into his mouth, magically managing not to drip tomato sauce all over his own fucking front. She snorts, sucking her fingers clean of crumbs before reaching for the second slice with her left hand while tugging a beer can free from the sixpack with her right. Women and multitasking, is she right or what?

At his admonition, Alexa pauses briefly, in the middle of opening her beer. The lid clicking open is such a satisfactory sound that she relishes, so the silence stretches for another second or two before she replies. The thing with Timm is that he's never disgusting. You can think what you want of his looks and probably of how he behaves at In&Out, too, but they're all men in there, they probably had it coming... Anyway, he's never disgusting, not towards her and that's a courtesy that's as rare as the experience of feeling full after having eaten McDonald's.

So rather than scoffing at him, she nods. Bites the tip off her second slice of pepperoni pizza with great care. ]

I don't even like my dad, why the fuck would I want to be nicknamed in his honor?

[ Besides. It's completely problematic with its incestuous undertones. Letting someone call her daddy? Please.

Don't be disgusting. ]

[reiterated]

[ In goes the pizza slice and immediately, nausea follows in its wake. He chews slowly, swallowing at regular intervals and trying not to choke on everything that's going down - good thing his gag reflex's been well and truly tamed, huh? Meanwhile, she talks about not liking her father, not wanted to be named in his honour, and he can't quite stop himself from commenting on it, though he has to keep it in until his mouth is empty - chew, chew, chew - swallooooow - and there. Finally. He inhales, feeling somewhat out of breath. ]

Mm. Yes, no, I can see that. [ He doesn't reach for another piece, choosing instead to grab a beer from between them, popping it open with a low, fizzing sound. ] But really, we can't run from what our parents bestowed upon us, not entirely - unless you want to name yourself, I don't know - [ He takes a quick sip. ] - Bertha? Lisa? Angelika? And that's just talking about names.

[ He stretches out his legs and puts the plate away on the floor. The different flavours still flood his taste buds and he can't help thinking about the way it must look from the inside of his mouth; everything coated in... tomato sauce and cheese and... ugh. Dirty. Dirty. He swallows again, harshly. Drinks some more. To cleanse. ]

[poetryslamming]

[ She's your daughter, they'd scream at each other when she was 17 and still bound to home. With her newly extended wardrobe and her undoubtedly confusing play on pronouns. She's your daughter. Neither of them owning up to their responsibility.

It's a slower process, digging into the second slice. It's as if she's sated herself on the first one, so although she knows she needs more than just one fucking slice to feel full, she has to take things in smaller bites. Looking over at him, at how he drinks from his beer can, she mirrors him. The beer is prickly and well-fermented on her tongue and she wrinkles her nose a bit at the taste. It's always a lovely ambivalence with alcohol. She lives off it, but she doesn't necessarily love the taste of it, no matter how many juices you mix it with. ]

I get what you're saying, but Mom actually picked my name. Wanted a short, strong name for her daughter. Bet she didn't see where all that strength was going, huh?

[ A dry laugh. Another drink of beer. Alexa gives up on the pizza halfway through, decides that Timm can have what's left. He needs to stock up more so than she does. Looking off to the side, she chews on her lip for a moment, then manages a sharp, sarcastic sort of smile. Flash of teeth.

With her now free hand, she circles her face with a movement that could probably have been elegant had she been dressed in something that wasn't so baggy, black and boyish. As it is, it's mostly just a confusion of fingers indicating her features, her eyes, her nose, the harsh curve of her mouth. You've got your dad's smile, her mother once took the time to tell her and maybe that's why Alexa Hase doesn't smile that often. ]

This - [ Another circle around her face. ] - is all Daddy's work, though. Lucky me.

[reiterated]

[ He sits down more fully on the bed, ignoring an instinctive urge to protect his buttocks - after all, it's all in his imagination by now, what a terribly amusing place to be, oh dear - and takes another long drink. He doesn't hate beer at all, once upon a time (in Berlin, naturally, where else) he even had preferences. Certain brands above others. Then, his sense of taste more or less evaporated amidst the flood of about a thousand buckets of cum. Joy. But there was a time and sometimes, that in itself is a nice thought. ]

Yes, lucky you.

[ He gives her an earnest smile. Regardless of her shortcomings - and really, just like him she has quite an impressive collection of those - she's by no means ugly or unattractive, not like him, and he'd most definitely know. In many ways, her parents probably, presumably, gave her many important things, groundwork, foundation; they've just lost sight of it with their heads so far up their own arses. He sympathises, of course. He certainly knows what that is like. Stinky business. ]

Parents are tricky gestalts, huh? The sum of so many confusing little parts, ourselves included. It's not like you owe them anything - yet, there's a positively morbid pre-conception in the world that we're to be somehow grateful that they screwed each other and chose to embrace the consequences. I wouldn't expect you to understand that, Alexa. Goodness, I wouldn't expect anyone to understand.

[ There's more than a tint of anger in his voice and he drowns it, chugging down half the can in one go. Alright, more than half. Not that it matters, she brought a fucking six pack. ]

[poetryslamming]

Shut up with your emo, Timm, of course I understand.

[ And Alexa thinks she does. As she watches him chug down his beer in one go, sucking a bit more cautiously on the rim of her own can. She thinks she understands that feeling, of ungratefulness, of wishing not to have been born. Sure, she's been there. She isn't there any longer, but she knows the place, it's dark and hateful and lonely and if Timm floats around in those waters still, she might just as well keep him company until something reminds him that death comes to everyone regardless, you don't need to fucking rush it. Ugly shags and hard drugs and excessive use of alcohol not taken into account. Those are called living, right?

She puts her plate aside and stretches out her legs a little, her right knee making a fun popping sound as she disentangles herself from -- you know, herself. Reaching for her backpack, she pulls out a small stack of papers, all of them facing down so he can't read the words. The multitude of words she's written while she thought he was dead. Or had abandoned her. With a small exhalation, she turns them over in her lap and lets her eyes read over the top sheet. It's his poem, completely by chance.

Would you look at that. One fucking reason to have been born. ]

Having kids is completely selfish anyway. Now, producing art on the other hand, that's a selfless act for you. We should get more recognition for it.