imagine your otp calmly discussing what to do with the money from their tax returns. imagine this happens every year, slowly grinding their petty, and less petty resentments into smooth hatred. they do it at dinner, the silverware clicks clearly against plates and a laminate that resembles, but not really, solid wood. someone wants a dog, someone is allergic; someone is tired of saving for a retirement that is years away, when youth and energy is spent, when the excitement of being together has worn off. there’s a scratch in the table, revealing it for what it is: cheap plastic. they could have a real table. they could have a vacation. security is so far off, and foreign to the way togetherness has begun to crawl under their skin. there’s a hiss when he sucks his soup from the spoon. there is nothing so disgusting as that hiss. ”so we agree, we should save,” he says. ”of course, dear.” he folds the napkin and sets the spoon upon it. dinner is over. thank god.