“Can I be a bitch for just a minute?”
“Of course, darling. Say what burdens your heart.”
“Did you see coach take off his shirt today?”
“Yes.… Oh, my god, please tell me you were not you che—”
“Did you notice the tattoo on the side of his ribs?”
“The dots?”
“Yeah. The three dots. What’s it called—a smudgy ellipse or something? Don’t you think it’s shitty? It’s like he did a stick-and-poke to himself in prison to just, like, I don’t know. It’s just ripping off the suicide semicolon thing going around on Twitter. Jesus Christ, man. Be original. Okay, bitch moment off now…. What? Seriously, what? Don’t wow me. Yes, I can read your lips. No, it’s not hard. Oh my god, please stop mouthing words at me. You’re reminding me of my ex.”
“Okay, too far. Take it back.”
“I’m sorry. I take it back.”
“Good.”
“Okay, get off your high horse.”
“Take that back too.”
“Fine.”
“Fine, what?”
“Fine, I take that back too.”
“What specifically?”
“The high-horse thing.”
“Good…. So, darling, my love: you’re my best friend. And if we skip over the part where I think you were checking out our coach today, and if I acknowledge that, yes, I did give you permission to be a bitch just now, you really were just a huge bitch. Miranda Priestly level.”
“Oh god, really? Why?”
“That’s not a shitty stick-and-poke. Hospitals tattoo patients to treat cancer. They use it to line up the death ray or something. I don’t really know. But—you should see your face right now—but yeah, it’s uhh… yeah.”
“Oh my god, I’m an awful person!”
“Yeah, kinda. It’s okay though. So…?”
“So what?”
“So were you checking him out?”