"Romeo y Julieta" is a brand of cigar. Yes, I chose it on purpose.
Saturday, she's reclining on the steps of the back porch, the cigar dangling treacherously low from on her lips. Low like the neckline of her shirt (it's a fucking warm day). Low like her mood and, oh, like her fucking love life.
That is, it would be low if she even had one. Because no one loves her and no, she's really not that hilarious.
I do love you. Clearly you don't love you as much as I do, or you'd put this shirt on and you would dance with me.
Santana growls in frustration and flicks the cigar sharply. Ashes fly, settling on her shirt and at her feet.
Speaking of her feet. She blinks, and narrows her eyes.
Brittany's fat cat is standing almost on top of them, his stomach practically dragging on the grass. Really, putting him on Atkins was not the best idea. "The hell you want, you stupid cat?"
Wait, wrong question. "How did you get here?"
Lord Tubbington, or whatever his name is, ignores Santana's obvious confusion and climbs straight up into her fucking lap; it takes some effort because he's so fat, but he does it anyway and pokes his nose right up into her grill. Santana yelps and almost loses her seat. "What the fuck, cat?" She tries to remove him with one arm — really, swear to God, she's not all that fond of cats, but Brittany might not forgive her if she sets Lord Tubbington's fur on fire with the cigar. But she can't just push the damn thing off her lap; if he gets injured, she'll be in so much shit.
Actually, she's already in it, but for some reason she's trying to care this time.
As if Brittany would be giving her second, third, fourth chances any time soon. Fuck. She wasn't going to think about that, but now—the fucking cat is going after her fucking cigar. She maneuvers the hand holding the cigar out of the reach of Lord Tubbington's paws. "Are you trying to get me into more fucking trouble with Britt? She's going to smell me on you, and then she'll smell the smoke, and then she'll think that I'm trying to kill you with kitty lung cancer or some shit. So fuck off."
Lord Tubbington apparently doesn't give any sort of shit. Much like everyone in her damn life, apparently. You start giving shits and all of a sudden nobody else does. Or something. Whatever. Her arm slackens and her grip loosens; Lord Tubbington stretches his neck out and snags the cigar in his yawning kitty mouth, and settles further into Santana's lap.
He's so heavy and his fur is uncomfortably warm and close. With the lingering smell of cigar smoke hanging around her breath, she swallows and leans in, breathing deeply through her nose as she buries her face unwillingly in Lord Tubbington's fur.
Because after all, Brittany uses her own shampoo on Lord Tubbington.