no- no, no, no, no...
But it really could be.
And who wanted to be ignored? Least of all, she. Vanity was not just a mirror on a bathroom wall to her. Vanity upheld her. The response she craved not-forthcoming, she felt unsteady- ready to topple any moment like the scratched coffee table in the antique store whose fourth leg had come unscrewed which everyone neglected to notice.
"I thought he was really nice," but the plaintive thought never voiced itself- because, impossible though it seemed, truly, nice people don't do that, now do they?
Let this be known though: Vanity prevented her from desiring a mere sycophant. This was not about her wanting a nice guy: a sweet acquiescent somebody who would compliment her at regular intervals, always about the visible shallow things, like beauty, or her skin. It was fine to be out and out fucked. No simian-smiles, no pleasant platitudes, no niceties filled with nothing.
Straightforwardness was a gift:
"Yes. Only this will do."
But perhaps it wasn't so, perhaps a singular desire was too much for mere mortals. Still-- how unbearably shocking to remove straightforwardness, and leave in it a void, a hole like what she felt in the pit of her stomach now, a hunger unannounced, unrelenting.