Monique V's Reviews > The Hating Game

“It's a corporate truth universally acknowledged that workers would rather eat rat skeletons than participate in group activities.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“I have a theory. Hating someone feels disturbingly similar to being in love with them. I've had a lot of time to compare love and hate, and these are my observations.
Love and hate are visceral. Your stomach twists at the thought of that person. The heart in your chest beats heavy and bright, nearly visible through your flesh and clothes. Your appetite and sleep are schredded. Every interaction spikes your blood with adrenaline, and you're in the brink of fight or flight. Your body is barely under your control. You're consumed, and it scares you.
Both love and hate are mirror versions of the same game - and you háve to win. Why? Your heart and your ego. Trust me, I should know.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“What are you imagining? Your expression is filthy.”

“Strangling you. Bare hands.” I can barely get the words out. I’m huskier than a phone-sex operator after a double shift.

“So that’s your kink.” His eyes are going dark.

“Only where you’re concerned.”

Both his eyebrows ratchet up, and he opens his mouth as his eyes go completely black, but he does not seem to be able to say a word.

It is wonderful.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“I want to know what’s going on in your brain. I want to juice your head like a lemon.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“I bring homemade cakes to my meetings with the division heads and they all adore me. I’m described as “worth my weight in gold.” Joshua brings bad news to his divisional meetings and his weight is measured in other substances.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“He did not smile back, and somehow I feel like he’s been carrying my smile around in his breast pocket ever since. He’s one up.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“How You Doing, Little Lucy?” His bright tone and mild expression indicates we’re playing a game we almost never play. It’s a game called How You Doing? and it basically starts off like we don’t hate each other. We act like normal colleagues who don’t want to swirl their hands in each other’s blood. It’s disturbing.

“Great, thanks, Big Josh. How You Doing?”

“Super. Gonna go get coffee. Can I get you some tea?” He has his heavy black mug in his hand. I hate his mug.

I look down; my hand is already holding my red polka-dot mug. He’d spit in anything he made me. Does he think I’m crazy? “I think I’ll join you.”

We march purposefully toward the kitchen with identical footfalls, left, right, left, right, like prosecutors walking toward the camera in the opening credits of Law & Order. It requires me to almost double my stride. Colleagues break off conversations and look at us with speculative expressions. Joshua and I look at each other and bare our teeth. Time to act civil. Like executives.

“Ah-ha-ha,” we say to each other genially at some pretend joke. “Ah-ha-ha.”

We sweep around a corner. Annabelle turns from the photocopier and almost drops her papers. “What’s happening?”

Joshua and I nod at her and continue striding, unified in our endless game of one-upmanship. My short striped dress flaps from the g-force.

“Mommy and Daddy love you very much, kids,” Joshua says quietly so only I can hear him. To the casual onlooker he is politely chatting. A few meerkat heads have popped up over cubicle walls. It seems we’re the stuff of legend. “Sometimes we get excited and argue. But don’t be scared. Even when we’re arguing, it’s not your fault.”

“It’s just grown-up stuff,” I softly explain to the apprehensive faces we pass. “Sometimes Daddy sleeps on the couch, but it’s okay. We still love you.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“I’ve got so much inside me I have no idea about. I’m like the mayor of a city I’ve never seen.”

He smiles at my phrasing. “If you knew the kind of little miracles happening every moment you breathe in, you wouldn’t be able to handle it. A valve could close and not open; an artery could split, you could die. At any moment. It’s nothing but miracles inside your tiny city.” He presses a kiss to my temple.

“Holy shit.” I clutch at him.

“You wouldn’t believe the stats on people who go to bed one night and never wake up. Normal, healthy people who aren’t even old.”

“Why would you tell me this? Is this what you think about?”

There’s the longest pause. “I used to. Not so much anymore.”

“I think I preferred it when I thought I was full of white bones and red goo. Why am I now thinking about dying tonight?”

“Now you see why I can’t do small talk. ”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“So, how was work? You clearly missed me.”

I put my hands on my face in embarrassment and he just laughs a bit to himself.

“It was boring.” It’s the truth.

“No one to antagonize, huh?”

“I tried abusing some of the gentle folk in payroll but they got all teary.”

“The trick is to find that one person who can give it back as good as they can take it.” He takes out a pan and begins to fry the vegetables in a single, stingy drop of oil.

“Sonja Rutherford, probably. That scary lady in the mailroom that looks like an albino Morticia Addams.”

“Don’t line my replacement up too quick. You’ll hurt my feelings.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“Truth or Dare,” he says. He always knows the exact right thing to say.

“Dare.”

“Coward. Okay, I dare you to eat the entire jar of hot mustard I have in my fridge.”

“I was hoping for a sexy dare.”

“I’ll get you a spoon.”

“Truth.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“It’s going to happen, Josh. We just need to get it out of our systems. I think that’s what it’s all been building toward.”

“You sound a little resigned.”

“I can only apologize in advance for the things I’ll do to you.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“He glances over his shoulder, no doubt hearing my insanely loud shoes stop in their tracks. Then he looks again. It’s a double take for the record books.

“I’m out stalking,” I call. It doesn’t come out the way I’d intended. It’s not lighthearted or funny. It comes out like a warning. I’m one scary bitch right now. I hold my hands up to show I’m not armed. My heart is racing.

“Me too,” he replies. Another cab cruises past like a shark.

“Where are you actually going?” My voice rings down the empty street.

“I just told you. I’m going out stalking.”

“What, on foot?” I come closer by another six paces. “You were going to walk?”

“I was going to run down the middle of the street like the Terminator.”

The laugh blasts out of me like bah.I’m breaking one of my rules by grinning at him, but I can’t seem to stop.

“You’re on foot, after all. Stilts.” He gestures at my sky-high shoes.

“It gives me a few extra inches of height to look through your garbage.”

“Find anything of interest?” He strolls closer and stops until we have maybe ten paces between us. I can almost pick up the scent of his skin.

“Pretty much what I was expecting. Vegetable scraps, coffee grounds, adult diapers.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“Absolutely pathetic.”

I make a Jeopardy! buzzer sound. “Who is Joshua Templeman?”

“Lucinda flirting with couriers. Pathetic.”

Joshua is hammering away on his keyboard. He certainly is an impressive touch typist. I stroll past his desk and am gratified by his frustrated backspacing.

“I’m nice to him.”

“You? Nice?”

I’m surprised by how hurt I feel. “I’m lovely. Ask anyone.”

“Okay. Josh, is she lovely?” he asks himself aloud. “Hmm, let me think.”

He picks up his tin of mints, opens the lid, checks them, closes it, and looks at me. I open my mouth and lift my tongue like a mental patient at the medication window.

“She’s got a few lovely things about her, I suppose.”

I raise a finger and enunciate the words crisply: “Human resources.”

He sits up straighter but the corner of his mouth moves. I wish I could use my thumbs to pull his mouth into a huge deranged grin. As the police drag me out in handcuffs I’ll be screeching, Smile, goddamn you.

We need to get even, because it’s not fair. He’s gotten one of my smiles, and seen me smile at countless other people. I have never seen him smile, nor have I seen his face look anything but blank, bored, surly, suspicious, watchful, resentful. Occasionally he has another look on his face, after we’ve been arguing. His Serial Killer expression.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“Josh watches ER and yawns, not at all suspecting I’m trying to estimate how big his rib cage is like a meat-eating predator.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“Joshua Templeman is going to spray his coffee out his nose when I walk in. I don’t know why I want him to—but I do.

What a confusing thought to fall asleep with.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“How long have you done it?”

“Since the second day of B and G. The first day was a bit of a blur. I’ve always meant to compile some stats. Sorry. Saying it aloud sounds insane.”

“I wish I’d thought of doing it, if it makes you feel better. I’m equally insane.”

“You cracked the shirt code pretty quick.”

“Why do you even wear them in sequence?”

“I wanted to see if you noticed. And once you did notice, it pissed you off.”

“I’ve always noticed.”

“Yeah, I know.” He smiles, and I smile too. ”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“Dad calls you other names starting with J, but never your real name.”

“What?” He looks alarmed. “You’ve told your dad about me?”

“He’s mad at you for being so mean. Julian and Jasper and John. One time, he called you Jebediah and I nearly peed myself. You’d have to grovel to my dad, that’s for sure.”

Josh looks so disturbed I decide to cut him a break and change the subject.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“MY PAJAMAS ARE soaked with sweat when I jolt awake and there is a third person in my bedroom. A man I’ve never seen before. I begin screaming like an injured monkey.

“Calm down,” Josh says into my ear. I scramble into his lap and press my face into his collar bone, huffing his cedar scent so hard I probably suck out his ghost. I’m about to be taken to a scary medical facility, away from the safety of my bed and these arms.

“Don’t let them, Josh! I’ll get better!”

“I’m a doctor, Lucy. How long and what symptoms?” The man puts on some gloves.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“I need to prolong this moment; it’s not often I gain the upper hand. I put on lipstick using the wall as a mirror. The color is called Flamethrower and it’s my trademark. Vicious, violent, poisonous red. Slit-wrists red. The color of the devil’s underpants,according to Dad. I have so many tubes that I always have a tube within a three-foot radius. I am black and white, but thanks to Flamethrower, I can be Technicolor. I live in terror of it being discontinued by the manufacturer, hence my hoarding.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“He advances like a floating Dracula. The menace is ruined by the sporting-goods-store bag loudly crinkling against his leg. A shoebox is in it, judging from the shape.

Imagine the wretched sales assistant who had to help Joshua choose shoes.I require shoes to ensure I can effectively run down the targets I am paid to assassinate in my spare time. I require the best value for my money. I am size eleven”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“So. This is it. Your car.” Danny stops, frames his hands around the car. “It’s incredible.”

“Isn’t she?” I lean on the door. “Free at last, free at last.”

“Did you just quote Martin Luther King Jr. in relation to your car?”

“Um. Yes, I guess I did . . .”

He bursts out laughing. “Man, you’re awesome.”

“I’m an idiot.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“Are you sad?”

“Not yet.” He closes his eyes.

“I’ll drive for a bit.” I hold out my hand.

He shakes his head. “You’re my guest. I’ll drive. You’re tired.”

“Oh, I’m your guest now?” I put as much menace as I can into my walk and he puts both hands behind his back. I smile at him and he smiles back. I’m surprised the pinprick stars above us don’t explode into silver powder. The sadness I caught in his eyes is burned away by a spark of amusement.

“My hostage. My blackmailed, unwilling captive. Stockholm Shortcake.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“I recheck my inbox. Everything’s up to date. I check the clock. Three fifteen P.M. I check my lipstick in the reflection of the shiny wall tile near my computer monitor. I check Joshua, who is glowering at me with contempt. I stare back. Now we are playing the Staring Game.

I should mention that the ultimate aim of all our games is to make the other smile, or cry. It’s something like that. I’ll know when I win.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“I’m missing out on a pale yellow shirt today. It’s the color of nursery walls when the unborn baby’s gender is a surprise. It’s the color of my cowardly soul.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“TODAY IS A magnificent black T-shirt day. Write today in your diaries. Tell your grandchildren stories about it. I tear my eyes away, but they slide back moments later. Underneath that T-shirt is a body that could fog an elderly librarian’s glasses. I think my underwear is curling off me like burning paper.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“I’m probably not good at a lot of things, but I will try to be”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“I type my password: IHATEJOSHUA4EV@. My previous passwords have all been variations on how much I hate Joshua. For Ever. His password is almost certainly IHateLucinda4Eva.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“He holds the elevator door open with one enormous hand and leans out to look at the weather. Then he swings those dark blue eyes to mine, his brow beginning to crease. The familiar bubble forms in my head. I wish he was my friend. I burst it with a pin. “I’ll give you a ride,” he forces out. “Ugh, no way,” I say over my shoulder and run.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game

“The soundtrack should be a lilting indie affair; equal parts hopeful and with a broken, bittersweet lyric hook that makes your heart hurt for some unknown reason. But instead it’s scored by the 1980s hair metal I found in an incriminating iPod playlist titledGym.

“You seriously got those abs while listening to Poison and Bon Jovi,” I crow, and he can’t deny it. It’s just us, windows down, stereo cranked, the road curling in front of us like a tongue.”
― Sally Thorne, The Hating Game