To hate people and never want to talk to anyone was both a standard for “basic bitches” and usually an exaggeration. For Petunia is was just how she was born. She so badly hated people and refused to engage with them more than absolutely necessary it sometimes surprised her boss when she answered the phone.

Petunia had been puttering around the house looking for this, putting that away, waving her hands back and forth as she disregarded everyone she reenacted every conversation she had that day, but with the things she had wanted to say instead of the socially acceptable and work appropriate things she had to say.

“Ugh,” she snarled as she walked into the bathroom. “I don’t even want to talk to you anymore,” Petunia said as she waved her hands at her reflection. “That can’t be good,” she chided on her way back to the kitchen. “It’s one thing to not want to talk to anyone else, but to no longer bear conversations with yourself,” Petunia continued as she turned on the tea kettle, “well, that can’t be good.”

The water boiled and Petunia made her tea. Her mouth still muttering away – this time at a quieter volume in hopes of not annoying herself any further. Her hands alternating flutters and she cleaned up the counter and took her tea into the living room.

Petunia had just sat down when her mother called. With a deep breathe in Petunia answered the phone, feigning a pleasant demeanor as best she could. Thankfully Petunia’s mother, Buttercup, had enough experience with her daughter to sometimes pick up on her overly anti-social days before it turned ugly. Their call ended in eight minutes. Petunia was annoyed it had taken her mother than long, but was also pleased that she hadn’t made her mother cry before she figured out that today was just not the day.

Perhaps it was her name, but Buttercup could be overly sensitive which paired awfully with her daughter’s personality type. At best Petunia was overly direct, but tactfully so; at her worst, well thicker skinned folks than Buttercup had a hard time making it through unscathed dealing with Petunia then.

Just as Petunia had picked her tea cup off of the table her phone went off. Her father’s picture flashed across her screen. Again Petunia took a deep breathe in and answered the phone. For two people who lived on opposite sides of the country to avoid each other they had impeccable timing. Petunia had found her father more agreeable to handle. For everything Petunia was and Buttercup wasn’t Harold blended them together like bitter coffee and sour milk. Their conversation lasted two minutes. They had had a lot to catch up on. Returning her phone to the coffee table and once more picking up her tea cup, Petunia turned on her television.

It hadn’t been on long enough for the sound to load when her phone went off for a third time. Petunia gripped her tea cup tightly. This was ridiculous. Petunia had spent years pruning away the levels of her life that caused her problems, and had even done some over pruning to those she could tolerate. There were few people who wanted to speak to Petunia and even less with whom she would speak. Three calls in one night was unbearable, unacceptable. At this point a text would have been too much.

Placing her empty tea cup on the coffee table Petunia picked up her phone once more. Without as much as a glance at the screen she pitched the phone clear across the room. The buzzing had stopped. Whether it was because the call had ended on the other line or because her phone was now broken, Petunia would figure out later.

Picking up her clicker she put on her favorite program. With her tea finished, her show on, and her toes tucked nicely into her blanket Petunia felt more pleasant already. Most importantly, with no way for anyone to reach her, Petunia believed that for maybe just one night in countless years, she could have a nice relaxing evening to herself.

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