Fictionlet
“Wha-ha!” Brigid announced as she came in. “Wha-ha, ho-ho, and a couple of tra-la-las, to boot!”
“Er, yes?” said Greg, looking up from the laptop.
“Yes indeed!” she said. “And now, for some random dancing around the room!” She immediately launched into a bizarre series of bodily jerks and head thrashings. “MIIIISSED YOU SATURDAY NIGHT!” she began to sing at the top of her lungs. “MIIIGHT HAVE GONE BUT WHAT FOOOOOR?”
“Are you okay?”
“COULDN’T BEAR IT WITHOOOOUUUUT YOOOOUUUUU! DON’T GET AROUND MUCH ANYMORE!”
Greg’s eyes were narrowed. “Are you drunk?”
She stopped and frowned. “No, I’m not drunk! I’m just being myself, loyal, lovable, loony Greg, with a pointless anecdote for one and all and a non sequitur for every occasion! Whoopiee!” She began thrashing around the room again.
“Um,” said Greg.
“Come on, come on,” she said. “This is the part where you, the ever-acerbic Brigid, make a withering remark about my sanity, my appearance, or just my overall state of existence. Hop to, boy, hop to!”
“If I’m Brigid,” said Greg, “then you’ve got no business calling me ‘boy,’ have you?”
Brigid stopped and looked at him. “Is that the best you can do?”
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s not in my nature for me to be withering on short notice.”
“Feh,” she said, flopping onto the couch. “Fat load of fun you are.”
“And besides,” Greg added, “if I was going to sing at the top of my lungs, it would be ‘Me and My Shadow.'”
-The Gneech
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