I called her. She didn’t have a car. “I don’t want to live this way,” she said. “But I don’t want to die.” A pause stepped onto the line. “I am reading dialogue,” she said. “It does not reflect my own feelings about my own existence.” She still didn’t have a car. “Come pick me up,” she said. “But when you get here, I’ll drive.” She didn’t know enough about me to presume that I would go along with this plan. I had flowers and a box of candy, intending a surprise, but slipped up and told her that I was bringing them. “Don’t eat them both,” she said. “Don’t eat either.” The traffic was perpetual. Eventually there I was in front of the house: two stories, the second of which was hers, painted a shrieking red. I idled there, waiting. Idle, idle, idle. She called me, read some more dialogue. “A desire to try out a new life is a signal that your old one has succeeded,” she said. “You never made a mistake when we were together, and yet not being together is not a mistake,” she said. “The comedic elements of our existence only remind us how much is sad,” she said. “Okay,” she said. She was done. I heard the bound script slap down on a table or floor. “I see your car out in front,” she said. “I’m not getting out of bed.” I went in, unsure of what had happened, sure of what would.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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