By: Akshat Sharma.

Vivian Bellacourt-Delacourt was A Reader. Amongst her gaggle of flouncy, bougainvillea-like girlfriends, Vivian was The Intellectual. Reading, to her, was what Hot Yoga was to Stacey or spinning was to Tracey. Where her two besties would post quotidian selfies from their respective studios of escapism, Vivian’s Instagram showed her book in hand, primly seated in a carrel at the library. Occasionally, she’d include a coffee in her selfies to drive home the point that being awed by Proust required a certain threshold amount of caffeine. That’s how it’s done, sluts.

One happy Sunday, Vivian, after brunch with Tracey and Stacey, went to the library to pose with a copy of “McTeague” to assure her Instagram followers that she was, indeed, alive. Vivian, her dark hair in a sensible ponytail, horn-rimmed glasses on fleek and an appropriately distinguished-looking volume of the book in hand went to find a charming sunlit corner of the library to take her picture. She wanted the darkness of the novel to play in counterpoint with what a beautiful day it was. Perhaps, one of those mini cup-and-saucer deals of espresso would add gravitas to the image: dark novel, bright day; bitter coffee, sweet girl. Such layers had Vivian envisioned!

The key to a successful Instagram update like this was as old as time and real estate: location! Location! Location! Normally, the search didn’t take Vivian very long at all, but today! Today was a chore! A cauchemar! Her travels around the library took her to a section she had never known existed: “Holds,” said the sign above the room. Vivian wondered if this might be it. The room, with its large windows, austere walls and handsome chestnut bookcases, had potential. As she wandered around the room, Vivian quickly realized that “Holds” referred to books that people had had reserved or ordered in from a different library.

“What fun!” thought Vivian. “Perhaps there’s a Bellacourt-Delacourt” or a “Bellacourt” or a “Delacourt” here, too! I wonder what my name twin could’ve requested!” And so, Instagram plans on hold, Vivian decided to peruse the shelves. As it turned out, a Delacourt had, indeed, reserved a book. Vivian sucked in a sharp breath when she saw that it was a copy of “Insignificant Raptures,” the sequel to Veruca Hammersmith’s post-apocalyptic sexy vampire morality tale. Vivian felt a hunger,that Lucien the lead vampire, had often described in metaphors applicable to both food and sex.

“What if I took it?” Vivian thought. “Who would know? I am a Delacourt, too! It would be easy.”

Oh, but the slimy ethics of it all! Shit and corruption! But, Lucien and Zara! Their love! The opposition of The Republic! Oh, alas and alack!

Vivian picked up the book and sniffed the pages. The romance, bloodlust and politics! She could smell them. “Well, it’s already in my hand…” thought Vivian. “McTeague” set aside, espresso imbibed, “Insignificant Raptures” in hand, Vivian made her way to the library exit.

A is young.

B is beautiful.

A likes B.

B likes A.

Together they’re young.

Together, they’re beautiful.

A’s laugh is B’s music.

B’s words are A’s scripture.

A’s eyes are B’s mirror.

B’s face is A’s image.

A likes dusk.

B likes dawn.

Together, they’re a day.

A’s kisses are eager supplicants.

B’s erection a God of rigid things.

A’s words are offerings in vitriol.

B’s ears are burning.

A’s submission is a riotous challenge.

B’s embrace is a battering ram.

A’s legs creak open.

B’s eyes are burning.

A likes B.

B likes A.

Together, they hope to see each other again.

B sees C.

A sees B see C.

B and C seem like they’re falling in love.

A makes a pizza. 

“I ended up watching porn last night,” Richard says as he pulls some toilet paper off the roll.

“Oh?” Joe rejoins from the adjacent cubicle.

“Yes,” Richard responds as he furiously wipes down the toilet seat in his cubicle. “It was this frightful mélange about this over-tattooed anorexic little snot who gets asked, “Well, what makes you a Cocky Bro?” before he gets the daylights fucked out of him.”

“A what now?” Joe laughs.

“A ‘Cocky Bro’,” Richard rolls his eyes. “That’s the name of the website, Cockybros.com. They specialize in cocky bros. I think. Also, there’s some wordplay in the title there, but I can’t seem to explain it without blowing it.”

Joe barks a laugh, “Why were you watching porn anyway?”

“Why does anyone watch porn?” says Richard, as he flushes the empty toilet. For luck.

“To get off?” Joe questions by way of answer.

“In a sense,” Richard murmurs. “I get off on judging them. That’s all I did for seventeen minutes and twenty-three seconds. I judged the tattooed anorexic for believing that he was something special, and I judged his ‘roided up lover for being so hyper-masculine. It was jarring. All of it.”

“I was with Shannon last night,” Joe shares, as he stares intently at the “For a good time, call…” graffiti that someone has etched on the wall of his cubicle. He is tempted to dial that number on his phone and see if it is someone he knows.

“And? How is she?” Richard asks.

“As if you don’t know,” Joe mutters, running his fingers over the graffiti he had been regarding.

“Quite,” Richard says, as he fumbles in his back-pack for a marker with which to draw a penis upon the wall of the stall. It would be a cocky one. “Still unfaithful, sadly.”

“Yep,” Joe repeats. “Still unfaithful.”

“Bitch,” Richard declares.

“Oh, man! What are you faggots up to?” A laughing voice calls from the outside.

“I’m sucking his dick through the wall,” Richard responds. “You want in, bro?”

“Fuck you, Rich!”

“Promises, promises!”

“That was unnecessary,” Joe observes.

“I am sorry to have had to drag your dick into this, Joseph, but it’s not like Shannon is…” Richard begins, fulsome.

“Careful!” Joe enunciates every syllable deliberately.

“Fine! We’ll just wait for that big oaf to leave, and then we can get down to business.”

“Yep.”

There is a silence across the two stalls. Richard feels strangely claustrophobic.

“How’s school?” he blurts.

“Fine,” Joe says. “Failing physics. You?”

“Great!” Richard replies. “I’m on the verge of a publication, I think.”

“That’s great news, man.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

Someone from the outside, presumably their first interlocutor, makes a loud farting noise. Vile laughter follows. Richard rolls his eyes. He hears a sigh from Joe’s stall.

“Hey, Rich?” Joe says, as he gets on his knees and faces the toilet.

“Hmm?”

“Do we have a problem? Like, should we seek help?”

“Don’t be daft, darling!” is Richard’s crisp riposte. “We do not have a problem. We do this recreationally, like weekend crack, to get the edge off. That’s what this is.”

“Weekend crack?”

“Joseph, your naïveté shocks me, sometimes,” Richard comments, as he enjoins the ring and index fingers of his right hand and curves them slightly, and sticks the hook-like arrangement down his throat to void all that remains.