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third-degree breakfast | scene, somewhere

“don’t you ever do anything fun? besides drinking whiskey, i mean. that’s making you old and crochety.”

“never. there is no fun in my life at all. it is one endless empty grey sky with a bare horizon. i feel depression closing over my head like the ocean waves at the mere thought of it.”

“are you being clever?”

“clever — me?”

“i thought as much. you always get melodramatic when you’re trying to be clever.”

“how well you know me.”

“better than you think, perhaps. see, you’re embarrassed now; your faces always flushes bright red when you’re embarrassed.”

“i’m not embarrassed. it’s hot in here —  i hate the heat. you’re loopy.”

“i may be, but your face is an open book. it tells the truth, even when you’re lying.”

“really.”

“really. even your eyes give you away. although i can’t tell what color they are.”

“that’s just to drive you crazy.”

“but about your eyes … “

” … yes?”

“your lashes are ridiculously long. longer than mine, in fact.”

“fascinating observation. they teased me about it in school, you know.”

“did they really?”

“no, never.”

“you’ve been drinking again, haven’t you? you’re trying too hard.”

“and you, while falling for it, have wandered off topic.”

“i’ve been on topic all the time, idiot.”

“your flattery is astonishing.”

“fun.”

“what about it?”

“what’s the last fun thing you actually can remember?”

“i remember lots of fun stuff.”

“like what?”

“what did you want to be when you grew up, a nazi interrogator?”

“like what?”

“like not talking to you, maybe.”

a pause.

“by the way, you’re drinking decaf. and you’re out of tylenol.”


he hated that she was so wide awake in the morning.

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