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She was made for you.
Dreamed up, beamed down into the bubble, all for you and your callow wants.
And you aren’t talking about Meenah, because Meenah was pupated for higher things than you (she thinks so, but she’s wrong), and Meenah has never wrapped those legs long around your hips, and you’ve never dipped a finger into Meenah the way you’ve dipped a finger (two, actually) into her.
You’re talking about your Roxy; your baby.
Every fetish made flesh and blood (blond, human, Bardot’s lips and Hepburns bones, and check out those legs). Her blood is the color of comonality but she is not by any standards common. So sweet, so sky-soft; When you trace your fingers along cheeks they are warm and free of marking. She’s so lovely, so powder-pink and looks so delicate and breakable. Her breasts aren’t too big, and they rest above her ribcage like a high celestial body. And you know the best part, the very best part? She let’s you touch them. A human girl lets you touch her tits. She makes a noise like a small animal mewling when you do. Whenever you leave a hickey, a bruise, a love bite, any blemish at all, you feel powerful. You feel like you're leaving your own little tag; 'Property of Cronus Ampora'.
You want to fuck her 'till she can’t walk straight for days and then some. You want to hear your scream your name until her throat goes sore.
“Fred," She’ll say, words slurred only a little this time. “Fred baby. Pour me another brandy. And you’ll do it, you'll do it every time. Fred, that's her nickname for you. That’s a Breakfast at Tiffany’s reference, she tells you. How great is that?
She agrees with you when you tell her the world just isn’t fair, Roxy, the world just isn’t fair. You’re dead and you still can’t catch a break.
“The world isn't fair to anyone, Fred. Leastways us. She coos, kissing your forehead, stroking your hair back, and comforting you. You can lay your head on her lap and she'll attend to you all day.
She'll mother you. She'll pity you. She knows what it's like to be all alone.
You want to possess her in every way. You want her to melt when you look at her and feel nothing but disgust at the very mention of anybody else (that Dirk guy she keeps mentioning in particular). It is only two of you hold up in this particular corner of the bubbles (you tell her they're things a pretty little thing like her wouldn't want to see outside these bubbles, and you warn her not to go), and if she doesn’t love you then who else is there to love?
You love yourself, but you love your Roxy twice as much, and she should love you four times more than that.
There is nobody else.