petra.

(apologizing to my dead father) ah, gomen oomf-chan!

[petra. @fureaky]

https://t.co/BQplPSggmB

[petra. @fureaky]

@solitudge “The dishes. It’s literally right there.”

[petra. @fureaky]

@unhingesight // not if we pass the linguini

[petra. @fureaky]

down. “I puta da meatball back in da fridge.” She glances at the man beside her with a grin, then elbows him back on the arm. “Right?”

@unhingesight

[petra. @fureaky]

repeats half-heartedly. Assumes that it means ‘I’m sorry’. Wonders if the ‘me’ in ‘it’s a me Mario’ is actually written as ‘mi’ all this time. Italian is confusing.

“I no cooka da pizza anymore,” she tells them and waves her hand dismissively in an attempt to cool the situation

[petra. @fureaky]

across her. The students expect a response to that. Maybe a nod or a lengthy speech to support their argument. Petra doesn’t care really care, so she smiles and says the one thing that she knows how to say in Italian.

“I cooka da pizza!”

@unhingesight

[petra. @fureaky]

be able to tolerate it though— that is, until one of the students points at her table, standing up from his seat as he says, “Surely, they would understand why mafias are not an aesthetic?”

All eyes are directed to them now. Quietly, Petra glances at the man who’s sitting

[petra. @fureaky]

@godbedevoured “Loudly, so that people will stare at you.”

[petra. @fureaky]

@godbedevoured “I literally run a pub.”

[petra. @fureaky]

@godbedevoured “You mean your lemonade stand.”

[petra. @fureaky]

@godbedevoured “You’re going to be accused of stalking.”

[petra. @fureaky]

@godbedevoured She nods. “Good bye then!”

[petra. @fureaky]

@godbedevoured “Well, it sure isn’t me!”

[petra. @fureaky]

@godbedevoured She sighs. “You’re a horrible salesman, don’t you know?”

[petra. @fureaky]

@godbedevoured Petra stops walking. “Me? How do YOU live like that?” She steps on her other toe anyways. “Loser.”

[petra. @fureaky]

@godbedevoured “And so what if I am? Want a little something on your other shoe?”

[petra. @fureaky]

@godbedevoured She shakes her head, raising a palm in front of his face.

“No thanks, I don’t drink dish soap,” she says. She swivels on her heel then, wriggling her fingers in a wave. “I’ll be going now, weirdo.”