Fics like so bourgeoise to keep waiting

“Shiv and I were going to take a yacht out to some French island or another,” Tom says, waving his hand as though the island itself were arbitrary, something so unimportant that it could be decided by the throw of a dart. The breeze hits his face like a gentle spritz of cologne, the air smelling of salt and sea. Despite the nature of the conversation, brought about by digging into the burial site of his broken engagement with Shiv, and exacerbated by being asked to excavate the remains of that relationship’s grave for Greg’s enjoyment, Tom was finding the experience more cathartic than he would have thought he would have. “We could go in the opposite direction,” Greg offers, looking hopeful. He opens his mouth to undoubtedly continue with his train of thought, but Tom is not so kind as to allow that. “I already have,” says Tom while bouncing his sunglasses jauntily off the bridge of his nose and back onto it, “by marrying you.”

Fics like so bourgeoise to keep waiting

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