“You know what, Jerry, you can go fuck yourself!”

The words echoed in a loop in his mind.  Over and over again.  The image of her angry but perfect face throwing the bouquet back at him as she walked away from him into the street.  Then, the sudden spike of adrenaline when she got hit by the car -  like something out of a movie.

He sat in the break room nervously, click-click clicking his pen and jittering his leg.  Sweat was running down the folds of fat around his shoulder blades, until it puddled and split like a river at the elastic boundary of his underwear.

The click-clack of her boot heels as she paced while on her phone, texting someone or scrolling idly, intoxicated Jerry as he watched her.  Her in her oversized hoodie that was practically a dress, long legs that went on for miles. Tall women were simply not fucking fair. 

Click, click, click, click… His eyes caressed her as she paced in front of the vending machine, smiling at the small screen in her hand. Jerry wondered who she was talking to or what app she was scrolling that was making her light up with so much joy.

His breath nearly stalled out when he felt his dick get fully hard in his tight work pants.  It hurt, but in the best way.  It was hard to breathe, watching her and sitting still, not touching her the way he craved to. Had craved to, for weeks since she started working here with her tight leather pants, anime hoodies with ears on the top, and long jet-black hair that she liked to wear in spiral curls.  Those curls bounced lightly as she walked.  Her hips almost twisted in a kind of sashay as she paced.  

The break room television was advertising some infomercial about weight loss. Maybe he could get a snack cake and use that as a reason to get close to her, to talk to her.  His dick was throbbing so fucking hard.  He didn’t want to get up and risk… the bulge being obvious.  

But soon it didn’t matter.  She stopped pacing just in front of it, obscuring his view, tapped the side of her phone and swore under her breath.  “Fuck, why didn’t you tell me it was three-fifteen already?”  She chided Jerry with a familiar tone, “I gotta clock back in - my break is over.”

She went over to the terminal to punch back in.  She was tall and the table was low, so she had to bend down significantly to type at the machine and do the retinal scan. It gave Jerry a magnificent view of her ass in those leather pants, a hint of red lace peeking out from the top of them as her hoodie rode up a little bit, sagging in the front from the heavy weight of what was in the kangaroo pocket at the front.

“Hahh-ahhh….fuuk….nngnhhhhhh….hm….unghh…”  the soft breathy sounds dribbled out of his mouth as a strangled groan and grunt.  His hands gripping the ends of the table, and his ass grinded into the seat making the chair whine under his weight with creaks and sharp scraping noises, as his cum splat thick and warm against the fabric of his boxer shorts.  “Uhhh… haa..ha..ahhhhh.. Shii… m..man… .damn it …” his moans continued to whisper out of him, the shimmering quiet of his steamy breath - fragrant with the garlic from his lunch hissed out between the narrow gaps of the bone cage of grit teeth.   He felt his heartbeat spike with adrenaline when she turned around -  unphased by what just happened.  “See ya out there, Jerry. Don’t forget to clock back in yourself, how much time do you have left?”

“Just... uh... Just a few more minutes, thanks. Happy Valentine's Day, Aspen.”

“I actually hate Valentine’s Day..”

“Really? Why?”

“It’s a capitalist scheme by a corporate oligarchy to perpetuate consumerism and keep the people disenfranchised and zonked out on chocolate, and scar the environment by robbing pollinators of the flowers we murder by picking to give to someone to make more people on an already overpopulated planet.  Named after a martyr of a hegemonic, dogmatic, and oppressive institution that was privy to all kinds of bad shit to the marginalized minority who resisted them. I’m not about that, so fuck that noise. Anyway, don’t get me started, or I’ll really talk your ear off, but if you are curious, maybe you can come to one of our rallies -  Anarchy for the People -  four o’clock on Sundays at Central Park. You should come hang out with us sometime.  Gotta go, see you out there, okay?”  

And she waved her fingers at Jerry as he sat there wide-eyed, feeling his cum stick to his thighs as he listened to the click clack of her boots fade and the latch of the break room door shutting behind her.  Jerry blinked, then groaned - whimpering.  He just wanted her more now.  Maybe he would go to that rally.  If only to see her again.  He had to know her. What else was lurking in that mind of hers?  Whatever it was, it made his cock throb and stay hard. He hadn't been this hard in years. Maybe Valentine’s Day died with his ex. 

His ex, Benita, the one that was hit by that car, almost two years ago now. He was  just breaking out of the debt from paying off the medical bills that her pushy family guilted him into paying.  And now there was Aspen, a mountain of a woman to inspire something new and invigorating in him that Benita never could manage. He couldn’t even get aroused by her without her getting him drunk so they could grope and have sex in the same one position, in the same spot, every time.  She didn’t like any variety, and never let him be on top, always making him feel ashamed about his weight, his large body.  ‘No you can’t be on top, I want to live! If you hump me with your heavy body, then you’ll kill me’. 

It was always about her and her pleasure, he was just a dildo with a pulse to her. She didn’t care for his mind at all.  Didn’t appreciate anything about his body except his big dick.  It was hard to say or admit it, but… he hated her. And he was fucking happy she was dead.   

It was almost liberating to feel the thoughts flow freely in his mind without shame, remorse, or guilt. 

Benita is dead.  

She was a bad girlfriend.  And he deserved better.  He smirked as he imagined writing a breakup letter to her, if he could, and what it would say.

Getting up to go clean up in the single-stall employee bathroom in the back warehouse, he stared in the mirror above the sink, taking a deep breath, turning on the water. He breathed the words out loud, half washing his hands, and half looking at his reflection in the mirror.

“Dear Benita, it’s over.” He felt his voice quiver with anxiety as a rush of chills went through his body saying just those few words, and then he continued.

“I am no longer interested in being your sweet treat whenever you want.  Not when there is more to life than being your pillsbury doughdildo as you called me, thinking it was a cute pet name, even after I told you it hurt my feelings and to stop calling me that.”

The memory of her mocking grin played in his mind and made him roll his eyes and grit his teeth.  Then he felt something dark smirk across his lips as he looked up in the mirror, imagining that he was looking at her arrogant face. 

“I am glad you’re dead.” The whisper, hollow and deafening as it caressed the still, small intimacy of the bathroom, against the white noise trickle of the running water. The weight of grief of who and what he had mourned - sank like a lumpy polyp tumor from his gut. The sensation of  it melting into a puddle of acid on the soles of his feet, where he felt a faint astral sensation of them burning - like he was standing on hot coals.

“I almost wish I had pushed you in front of that car.  You abusive bitch. I spent years hating myself to be with you.  And you just used me.  I was so pathetic, I even let your fucking family guilt me into paying for your medical bills and funeral costs. Your whole family is a sack of shit, no wonder you’re not any different.  You’re so miserable that all you can do is use people.  You’re no good. And I’m fucking happy as shit that you’re dead.”  

Slowly, Jerry grinned. It was like watching a serial killer coming-of-age horror movie, the way his face lit up in the most unstable of ways. He looked manic, sinister. His eyes were cold, hard, decadent with the kind of swaggering vacancy of psychopathy that some people find comforting for its aloof nature and avoidant attachment.

“I’M HAPPY YOU’RE DEAD!”  he whispered elatedly, leaning close to the mirror.  As he slowly stood upright, he laughed, low, chuckling malevolent mirth. It was like a kind of emotional ejaculation from years of edging himself into self-abased embarrassment of existing and thinking she was the best he could do. Thinking he was so disgusting all he’d ever be wanted for was for his dick and his paycheck.

“Goodbye, Benita, enjoy Hell.  See you never. Happy Fucking Valentine’s Day”   And he winked at his reflection. He thought of Aspen, with her long legs and smiled a sinister smile at his very frightened reflection that wasn’t smiling back at him.  Turning to dry his hands, he then left the bathroom, whistling idly - some random tune.  And a small bounce in his step.