"Your notice me, senpai routine is never going to impress Frostlock!" There's muffled pounding on the inside of the door. "Open this fucking fridge door, Copykitten!"
"Kit," Henchfemme says wearily. "I don't mean to get in the middle of your entire — thing — there, but your girlfriend sounds mad mad about this."
"Yep," Copykitten says, leafing through an issue of Vogue.
There's more pounding, and a muffled scream of frustration.
"...Frostlock?"
"You know the whole celebrity free pass thing? We compared notes on that, once." Copykitten smiles down at the airbrushed page, beatific. "She was all, Crucible, which — I mean, would, but you know that's some boring-ass vanilla sex. And I said Frostlock. She was so mad about it."
"Uh-huh," Henchfemme deadpans.
"Yeah, and she couldn't SAY what do you mean, a DUDE because biphobia. But she was so mad." Copykitten licks her finger and turns the page, smiling. "She gets wound tight, like every six months to a year, you know. Just doesn't know how to let go of the anger healthily."
"And you winding her up like this is healthy?"
"Oh, absolutely fucking not, darling," Copykitten says, smile wide and sunny and shameless. "She's going to get out of there and she's going straight to our place and she's going to throw plates at the wall and scream names and shove her things in a duffel and go to her mom's for three, four days. A week, tops. And then." She closes her eyes, licks her lips.
"I don't need whatever mental image of freaky ragesex you're about to inflict on me," Henchfemme says.
"Oh, you cannot imagine the freaky ragesex," Copykitten says, and tosses the magazine on the floor. "What are you doing on Wednesday, by the way? We could catch a movie while I'm waiting for her to get back from crying to her mom about me."
