“So! You just littered.”
“It’s food so it isn’t litter.”
“You’re telling me food is omitted from the official definition of litter?”
“Yeah.”
“All Knowing Ty Walker, also known by his superhero alter-ego, Mr. Humongo has memorized the definition of litter?”
Yep, he was right, this was good. Even pissed, the bitch was funny.
“They make you do that kinda shit in prison.”
“They do not.”
“Babe, five years in one building, they gotta do something to keep us occupied.”
“You’re full of shit,” she mumbled, he looked to her and saw her shove an entire Ding Dong in her mouth.
Ding Dongs.
Christ.
Total goof.
They hit the highway, she jacked up the music and he experienced the unusual desire to beg someone to drive ice picks in his ears so he wouldn’t have to listen to it.
Then she started singing while sipping her coffee, just like the day before, at the top of her lungs with occasional car dancing.
And again. Total goof.
The country-rock song finally died and she snatched up the iPod to consider his next agony.
“Baby?” he called and he felt her eyes on him.
“Yeah?” she replied, her sweet voice soft, another tone he was getting used to and this was because the last couple of days it had started to come at him often.
“Do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“In a second, I’m gonna pull over, get out my gun and give it to you. When I do, shoot me with it.”
“What?” she whispered.
“I’m facin’ another hour and a half of your music. I’d rather be dead.”
Silence then, “Shut up.”
“No, seriously.”
A smile in her voice then a repeated, “Shut up.”
He bit back his own smile.
Then he heard her say, “Actually, a pit stop wouldn’t be amiss at this juncture.”
He glanced at her then back at the road. “What?”