You know what I hate? Urination. Every time I place a glass of water to my lips, I groan at the plethora of ways I can be inconvenienced. I might have to piss the moment I sit down to write. I might have to piss the moment I get in the car to do a commute I don’t want to do. The worst one? I might have to piss the second I transition from REM to NREM. I’ll sigh. Toss the blankets back and shiver angrily. I’ll grumble something about my bladders capacity as I trudge up the stairs. I’ll sit or stand or fucking squat. I’ll listen as the liquid disturbs the surface tension of the other liquid. I’ll flush them both. I’ll be thirsty again. The cycle will repeat.
“This — this is what you want to talk about?” Jennie asks.
Jennie likes peeing. Jennie likes pooping. Jennie likes standing in the mirror with her tits out and her eyes wide. Grinning at herself. Grinning. Like a damn Cheshire cat.
“Yes!” I say, flapping my hands angrily.
She chuckles and shakes her head. Her jet-black pixie cut bobs along with her. I watch her heart-shaped face. Her pretty nose. Her petal pink lips. I sigh. Jennie is pretty. Jennie has always been pretty.
“What do you hate about peeing?” Jennie asks.
“All of it.” I say. My throat is dry, and I want to take a sip of water. My brain sends those signals. Thirsty. Thirsty. Thirsty. I curse them. I yell at myself. Swallow your spit, ingrate. Fuck off. You’ll drink when I’m ready.
“Elaborate.” Jennie says. I sigh. Sit back. Cross my arms over my chest.
“Like — my bladder always needs something. It doesn’t matter what I’ve got going on. It wants to piss at the worst times.” I say.
Jennie stares at me like I’ve got two heads. Maybe three.
“That’s what a bladder does.” She says.
“Yeah, but it’s like a screaming child. It wants what it wants and I’m just at it’s beck and call all the time.” I say.
Jennie stares at me again. Her gaze softens and her lip twitches. She reaches out a hand and places it on mine. She’s warm. Jennie is pretty. Jennie is warm.
“That’s what children are supposed to do too.” She says.
I sit there. Staring at her. Her pixie cut. Her pretty face. Jennie, who loves to shit, piss, and stare. Grinning. She grins at herself a lot.
“It’s annoying.” I say.
Jennie cocks her head to one side and smirks devilishly.
“I’ve got to pee.” She says, standing up and switching off to the bathroom.
Her heels clickety clack on the tile floors. We’re in a coffee shop. My throat is dry. My eyes are burning. I’m about to start bawling because Jennie can go pee. Jennie doesn’t mind dragging her carcass to the bathroom. Jennie doesn’t refer to her body as her carcass. Jennie loves to pee. Jennie loves to crap. Jennie loves — herself.
