He: “Sandwiches.”
She: “Get a life, a real life.”
He: “How does that translate to you making more sandwiches for me?”
She: “It’s not normal, don’t you realize that? You have a screw loose, you have problems.”
He: “This is about you buying avocados last week and bringing them here, having them in my kitchen, isn’t it?”
She: “You need psychiatric help. I envision long term and in a secure facility.”
He: “I bet you even dream about secretly slipping me some Vegemite every now and then, don’t you?”
She: “Sometimes I ask myself why I’m even with you.”
He: “I never lied to you, I didn’t hide it, you knew about the sandwiches before you decided to be with me.”
She: “Back then, I thought it was just some silly quirk, a phase.”
He: “WHAT?”
She: “It used to be cute, now it’s just irritating.”
He: “I can’t hear this, I can’t sit here and be insulted like this.”
She: “There is more to life than sandwiches, you kn...”
He: “Wait, what did you just say to me?”
She: “...and if you don’t believe that, you can always make them yourself. Your arms aren’t broken.”
Pause.
He: “I don’t even know who you are any more.”
She: “Take it. It’s what you need to know, it’s what you deserve.”
He: “So it’s over, right? We’re through?”
She: “I finished packing my bags twenty-five minutes before you got here.”
He: “Will you make me one last sandwich before you go?”
She: “Of course I will. You know me.”
~
