“You know what's really interesting to me?”he asks pointedly, gazing at her from his perch on their worn leather couch, loose limbed and high. The living room is dark and pungent, smoke lingering from the hashish joint they just shared.
“Hmm?” she issues, fixated, not looking up from her iPhone. Same couch. Similar high. Her legs are splayed across his, two long and slender naked feet wiggling an undeclared and unfocused rhythm. “You tell me that you find it compelling and endearing when I cry over my great uncle dying, but then you tell me that I'm unemotional the rest of the time,” he answers.
“Well sometimes it really feels that way,” she offers, tapping on her screen. “Hey. You! I'm sitting right here!” he waves his arms and snorts, only half in jest. She doesn't look up. She's looking at a reel of a large dog stuck in a tree, its owner in a panic.
“I wuvvvvvvv you, baby,” she softly demurs, still fixated on the screen. “Yeah, I love you too, hon,” he perfunctorily declares. And he picks up the remote, aiming it at the television to turn up the volume three blood red bars.