“Okay, so dig this – ”
“Did you just say dig?”
“Yes, I did. Anyway, I was just in the bathroom, right, and – ”
“Yeah, no shit, we are standing outside of it.”
“I swear to God you’re going to let me finish this. So – ”
“Okay, go ahead.”
“What? Tell me what happened in the men’s restroom.”
“I don’t want to tell you now.”
“Because you were a dick and now the story is ruined.”
“Oh, you baby. Tell me.”
They started walking toward the exit. She grabbed his arm and turned him around.
“Please tell me?”
“Why!” she whined.
“Honestly, given time to reassess, I figured it isn’t the best story to tell.”
“Okay, now I have to know. Please! I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Oh, really now?”
“And how is that?”
“You’ll just have to find out.”
“Fuck. Fine. Okay. So I go to use the urinal. There are four lined up on the wall. The three at the end are like standard height, and the one nearest the door is lower for kids. In observance of the buffer rule – are you familiar with the buffer rule?”
“Don’t mansplain the buffer rule to me. Girls do it with stalls. Continue.”
“My apologies. At any rate, I go to the far stall. Two guys walk in, I assume they’re buddies, and one guy goes to the nearest tall urinal to the door, and the other guy uses the kiddie urinal.”
“Why didn’t he use the big one?”
“The kiddie urinal only alters the buffer if it would not cause consecutive users. You never complete a chain of guys if there is another option available.”
“If someone else walked in, what should they do?”
“Someone did walk in.”
“What did they do?”
“They went to a stall.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“At any rate, the guy using the taller urinal started giving his buddy shit, saying ‘Ha! You’re using the urinal for guys with small dicks!’ Then his buddy said – ”
“Wait, wouldn’t the smaller urinal be for a guy with a bigger dick because it would hang lower?”
“God damn you.”
“That’s exactly what his friend said. You ruined the story. You are the killer of joy,” he said. He turned away from her and started walking away. She followed him as he pouted to the car. He got in the car and turned it on before her hand was even on the passenger door handle.
“Wait, are you actually mad?”
“You just interrupted me like, thirty times.”
“You interrupt people all the time!”
“No, you don’t get to just make a claim and not provide supporting evidence.”
“I don’t fucking care enough about this conversation to do so.”
“That’s because you don’t have an example.”
“Oh yes, yes I do,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Then fucking enlighten me.”
“Whoah now, guy, you want to cool it?”
“Me cool it? You’re the one saying I interrupt people after you spent the past five minutes interrupting me!”
“Seriously, I don’t want to do this. Stop.”
He drove her home. He put on some music. She hated it. He knew she hated it. When they got back to their apartment, he flipped on all the lights and grabbed a beer. He sat down in the living room and turned on the TV. She turned off all the lights behind him and went to bed. He stayed up, watching some old movie until he passed out. He woke up to the TV blaring about some revolutionary culinary device, able to fry anything you placed inside of it without the use of oil. It was still dark out. He thought about getting up from the couch and walking into the bedroom with her, but he could move his body. He wanted to change the channel, but the remote was on the end table by his feet. He watched the infomercial describe the miraculous machine, a final cure-all to all of our home frying woes. Both safe, fast, and energy efficient, the whatever-the-fuck-it-is was going to shift our kitchen’s paradigm.
He got up from the couch. A blanket fell off of him. He didn’t remember it being there before. He walked into the bedroom and laid down on the bed. She wasn’t there.