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They were supposed to grow old together.

Lulu, deep down, had plans for her and Candy; she expected them to be those cackling hens, guiding the children of the future before retiring to the nursing home, legacy secured.

She was going to kill Candy, but her petty ass would’ve died in her rocking chair just as Lulu was about to poison her oatmeal or whatever it was geriatric bitches ate (Elektra would know). They were going to die together (because Lulu wasn’t one to be outdone) and be buried together in a plot overlooking the sea.

As Lulu sits, alone in her dingy apartment, staring at the birthday cake she made herself, she can’t help that hollow feeling welling up in her stomach.

Candy isn’t here with her.

There was supposed to be some smart-ass comments, a quip of how of course a bitch that lived off Slim-Fast and popcorn wouldn’t know how to bake a cake. Hell, a Facetime reading session would’ve sufficed.

But instead, here is Lulu, celebrating her fifty-fourth birthday in 2019, alone.

Everyone she knew has passed on or vanished; the ones still holding on are Angel, Damon, and Lemar, but Angel is doing a reality show, Lemar is working himself into his grave with all of those plastic surgeries trying to keep up with the new blood, and Damon is booked being a choreographer for some 90s pop star trying to make a comeback.

None of them bothered to text her a Happy Birthday.

“Fake ass bitches,” Lulu mumbles, blowing out the candles.

“I don’t know why you getting offended. You never cared for those bitches any damn way.” Candy’s voice echoes in Lulu’s head.

“It’s the thought that counts.” Lulu says, cutting herself a slice. She cuts another slice and places it on the plate across from her.

“Must be so lonely, celebrating your birthday alone twenty times in a row.” that voice echoes.

Lulu sections off a piece of cake and takes a bite.

Choking on the taste, she washes it down with wine.

“Don’t worry, bitch.” Lulu holds a wine glass to the empty chair.

“I’ll be seeing you in a minute.”