A.m.a

“Bologna, bologna, bologna.” “No!” he screeches, holding his hands to his ears. “Don’t you dare Beetlejuice me. Don’t you fucking dare.” He glances over his back, checking around the room. “Is it here? Is he here?” I point off to the window and yell, “There he is.” Wilder lets out an ear-splitting scream and then falls to the ground and shimmies under the coffee table. “You devil woman.”
― Meghan Quinn, Till Summer Do Us Part