You sit here and she sits there.
"Weapons?" she asks.
"Sure," you say. You reach under your cushions for a hunting knife and some throwing stars. She reaches under hers and pulls out two handguns, different ones, you don't know what they're called, but one looks like the kind Riggs would carry and the other would look good in Murtaugh's hand.
"Clothed or naked?" you ask.
"Tops and bottoms?" she asks.
You take off your bottoms. She takes off her top.
"Okay, let's do this," you say.
She takes a deep breath. "I feel scattered."
"I feel heavy," you say. "Like everything inside me is made of wet cement."
She laughs. "Can I write the Van Halen VH on your insides with a stick?"
You don't laugh. You throw one of your stars and she dodges it.
"I hate November. Always have," she says. "More so since you."
You tell her she's just scared of getting older. She shoots the Murtaugh gun and the bullet slices the skin of your left bicep.
Suggest a compromise.
"Let's both get on buses going in opposite directions. First one to jump off the moving bus to sprint after the other person's bus apologizing for everything and begging for a second chance loses," you say.
"Deal," she says. "You're gonna go down in flames."
You tell her you're well aware of that. Then you put on your tops and bottoms and go to the bus station.
Happy Sectional Couch Day!
