I made a valiant effort to change the subject. “Well, at least we have our youth. Or perceived youth. You look like you’re in your twenties.”
“Stopped my aging at 26, actually.”
“Must be nice. I’m 72. Or a Safe Zone 55.”
Myria spit-laughed her beer. “Oh gods. I feel so bad for them, but you’re right.” She tried to awkwardly clean up the mess.
I took an extended drag of my cigar, then my sweet time exhaling. “You look normal all of a sudden.”
“Oh no, I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t be. Just be. That’s the point, you know?”
She snorted again. “That doesn’t make any sense! You’re too drunk.”
“Like hell. I’m exactly the right amount of drunk. Besides, you’re the wizard who tried to wipe up spilled beer with her hands.”
She laughed, clear and loud and bright. It was hopeful. There is still hope. I can still dare to hope. So could she.
“Harold, you wanna come help me find my girlfriend?”
“Like right now?”
“Fuck no. We’d die. Tomorrow.”
I considered it for a moment. “Sure. Just as long as we don’t wind up in any movie theater carpet situations.”
“What situations?”
“Movie theater carpet.”
“Translate.”
“Oh…uh…I guess it’s Missouri City slang then. Means, uh…oh, you know…crazy. And kinda sticky.”
She considered me for a moment, then smirked. “You folks really did lead uncomplicated lives over there, huh?”
It was my turn to do a spit-take.
