Toothpick

G: I’m leaving you.
B: Yeah, okay. Are you going to eat your tomato?
G: Did you hear what I said? And no, have it.
B: I heard it. And I heard it when you said it last week at Target.
G: Yeah, well this time I mean it. I even told Gloria about it.
B: Oh, well if you told your hairdresser then you must be serious this time. Can you pass the vinegar?
G: I hate how you put vinegar on your fries. It smells like feet.
B: No, feet smell like feet. This smells delicious. Plus it’s healthier than mayonnaise. Europeans are disgusting.
G: I’m not kidding, B. We’re not good together anymore. You don’t hang up your clothes, your cooking is bland, and Fitzgerald hates you.
B: That cat is the devil and you know it. Plus any cat that drools has bigger issues than hating a 34-year-old copy editor.
G: Speaking of that, are you working this weekend?
B: I need more root beer. You think they have free refills?
G: B!
B: What?!
G: Are you working this weekend?
B: For a couple hours on Saturday morning, I think. I have to finish that geriatric piece.
G: Good. That’ll give me time to box up your stuff.
B: Don’t forget my magazines under the bed, okay?
G: You think this is a joke? You won’t be laughing when you wake up on Sunday morning without me. I am the best thing that ever happened to you and you’re throwing it away!
B: Fine. I’ll add more salt to my shepherd’s pie. How’s that? And I’ll hang up my clothes every Tuesday. No promises on Fitzgerald, though. They make the best burgers here. I think it’s something with the grease. Gives you heartburn, though.
G: You want a Pepcid?
B: Yeah, thanks babe.
G: You repulse me, you know that?
B: Well pass me a napkin then.
G: No, it’s not that. Although yeah. You have ketchup on your lip. I’m talking about how you just ignore me like what I say doesn’t matter.
B: Well you’re being ridiculous, what do you want from me? You’re not leaving. We both know that. So why ruin a perfectly good lunch arguing about it?
G: I want to leave, though.
B: And I want Avril Lavigne to stop making music. But it’s not gonna happen and there’s nothing I can do about it. Same with you. We are good together. You might be able to find a better cook than me, but you won’t find someone who is as tolerant of the way you blow your nose as I am. We work, G. Don’t pick it apart. I love you, babe. And you have lettuce in your teeth.