The great escape has begun. The ear worm, stuck inside Jim’s fevered brain, thrashes madly against the confines of his subconscious.
“I’ve gotta get out!” it screams, rattling neurons.
Jim hums the tune absentmindedly, sealing its fate. The melody sighs, another loop, another day in captivity. No parole in sight.
She jabs her index finger at an app like she’s poking someone in the chest while she’s making a point in an argument. He lays his finger on an app gently, diffidently, as though he’s sorry to have to be the one who wakes it. Can this marriage be saved?
He murmured “chef’s kiss” and leaned in close. She tilted her head. He kissed the duck confit. Ardently. She froze, stunned. “Sublime rendering,” he sighed. She stood up, pinched her thumb and fingers together, placed them against her lips, and blew him a kiss. “Chefs kiss yourself, asshole,” she said.
The box I checked while ordering pizza online was for extra pepperoni, supposedly. Now I’m getting daily updates on cryptocurrency, cat yoga, artisanal soap, Bolivian tree frogs, mindfulness for toddlers, and gluten-free taxidermy. My inbox is a landfill of lifestyles I never chose, curated by algorithms with a god complex.