“You're not on my mind anymore.”
“Then why did you call?”
“To tell you that.”
“Just that?”
“That, and my plan to marry.”
“Marry who, Robbie?”
“Someone with a tick. Not the parasite that lodges itself on dogs or whore house couches, but more of an involuntary tick; click of the eyes, spasm of the ears, shake of the head type tick.”
“And what's wrong with me?”
“Well, for starters, you order expresso martinis. Secondly, your bottom lip looks like it has horns.”
“My bottom lip looks like it has horns?”
“Yes.”
“Are you fucking insane?”
“Let's come back to that. Thirdly, you never wear bras, it's no longer exciting seeing your breasts.”
“Well, I'll start wearing bras then”
“No, it's too late. The damage is done. Your nipples are forged into my memory like sea shells on a beach. I think of them often now. It should have been my treat! You know? Seeing your breasts should have been my treat, now it just reminds me of peanut butter sandwiches and getting beaten for having a Barbie and Ken lunch box. Also, I kind of feel like I am at the stage where I need to find someone who shares my passions.”
“And what would they be?”
“I dunno. Reading the obituaries…?”
“You never read the obituaries.”
“I started. Just now. It’s brilliant for self-esteem.”
“Fuck you, Robbie.”
“Fuck me, Robbie. Yes, fuck me, Robbie. Interesting.”
“What!?”
“Nothing.”
“You're fucking insane.”
“As a ghost perhaps, but in my current shape, with my current complexion, I reckon I’m doing ok.”
“I didn't say you were invisible, I said you were insane.”
“Ghosts aren't invisible.”
“Whatever, I am sick of this. ‘Ghosts aren't invisible...’ You need fucking help.”
“I don’t need fucking help. Never need help with that.”
“Robbie, shut up.”
“Sarah, turn around, a ghost is about to stab you with a ballpoint.”
