Peter and Laura

“Goddammit Laura, I'm feeling better.”

“that's great!” she shouted back, her mouth filled with Chinese sesame noodles.

“It's not great.” he shouted. “It's anything but great. It's abysmal, it's terrifying, it's unheard of. I'm a writer. I write. I love to write. I don't know anything else. My melancholy writes the checks. It pays the bills. It's my constant companion. I'm feeling better. The well's dried up.”

Laura swallowed her mouthful. “Peter, you're the only person I've ever met who's so screwed up. Do you hear yourself? You're miserable because you're happy.”

“damn straight” Peter said, before they both burst out laughing at the absurdity of it.

“Goddammit Laura, I'm feeling better”

Her mouth was full of Chinese sesame noodles, so she didn't respond.

“Don't you hear me?” Peter questioned, a little offended.

“My mouth was full Peter. I'm glad you're feeling better.”

“Well I'm not.” Peter complained. “I'm a writer Laura, no one's going to like what I write now.”

“that's ridiculous.” Laura said, putting another forkful of the cold and slimy noodles into her mouth, savoring the carbs and calories.

“Maybe you're right.” Peter said. “Maybe you're right.”

“Goddamit Laura, I'm feeling better.”

“Oh no! The horror” Laura responded sarcastically. “What are we ever going to do?”

Peter was taken aback. Laura looked very pretty with her thin lips taking in mouthfuls of cold sesame noodles. She had spice, she had this fire to her. She had wit and personality and daring. But she was cruel, and he'd had just about enough of her.

“I'm a writer Laura.” Peter nearly pleaded, vying for her sympathies or at least some reaction other than her sarcasm. “They pay me for my tortured soul.”

“They pay you?” Laura sneered. “Since when?”

“Get out.” Peter said simply. And Laura left.