What are we what are we what are we—

Is a query, alright. What are we, in two-legged grandeur, would outpace Usain Bolt's sprinting prime on the cinder tracks. Ditch behind these snowlogged Converse, too.

Not like she's rich in choices right now. So, 'too-cool-for-boots' Shauna keeps shoeshoveling a rugged path through this Mount Everest of snow.

Her mittenless hands, nearly numb, quiver. Strangles her knapsack's straps like she keepsakes grudge.

Grudge one because Dad fated her two-mile odyssey to and from school carless. Says, It's for a job interview, as he steers the Shipmans's only minivan to his drinking bud's quarters. Yeah, right. Job interview, my ass.

Numero two to you for dumbing her a lovesick fool. For fevering her visage summer red from your sweet, mumbled nothings. For coding her ears to pine for honey. Much like your new girl. And... your other sidechick.

Her brain parts that taboo curtain.

And God. Forget fever. Her insides have plunged and flamed on fucking hellfire.

So, here comes tres. That miniscule, bitter rashness besting her it's none of my business rationality & you're just a talking stage common sense. And there's she shivering through the consequences.

She trudges through snowstorm birthed weather in springwear. Passes a locality of whitecrowned roofs. Stills at a mildly shoveled frontyard.

Shauna, then, lumbers into the porch, hogging her flannel like blanket. A frozen pointer rings the doorbell and tremors. All to confront your traitor ass and go What are we?

The entryway wakes and she practically heaves to your confused gaze:

"I heard you were talking to a new girl."

Which, okay, would have bagged a sabertooth level threat if her build wasn't diseased by shivering and a minute into hypothermia.

She's glaring, blinking her snowflake crusted lashes. And puffing misty gusts spelling fuck yous through her lips' true blues.

Just to drill the point: she's not the dumbass here, okay?