I would so much rather cry. I would so much prefer this if I could just start bawling and screaming here in the street. Maybe I could pretend to be so fucking crazy that someone would call someone else and then that second person would come with an ambulance and I could act so crazy that they’d have to take me somewhere with a green lawn and give me a shower and put me in a straight jacket (which actually sometimes seems like it might be comforting, if a person had a little bit of choice in the matter) and I don’t have a wallet or even underpants on, so no one would be able to tell me to go home, and then eventually someone would see me on the news and be like, “Isn’t that Megan?” and then Randy would feel like an asshole and I would get to go live with my parents for a while and it would be a judgment free zone because everyone would be a little bit afraid of me, but they would finally see that I was a person worthy of their sympathy. If I threw myself down on the street and started screaming like a freak in my jammies then people would see, and then it would be all right, you know? You know? You know?

“You know?” she whispered. “You know?” She whispered it while she looked at the palms of her hands and walked back to her apartment in the apocalyptic green light, wondering what she could do to convince people that she was crazy (therefore a victim) and not an asshole (therefore just an asshole).

“Where were you?” asked Randy.

“It’s so fucking dark in this shithole,” said Megan.

“Where were you?”

“What a dump. Hey what’s that from?”

“What?”

“What a dump,” she said.

“Ok, fine, don’t tell me where you were.”

“I was just outside, ok? Sorry if I don’t feel completely comfortable treating you like my mommy and reporting to you about everywhere I’ve fucking been, ok?”

“Oh, is that you treating me like your mommy? Because I just thought that was being a courteous normal fucking person. I mean, you walk out of the fucking house in your underwear, of course I’m going to wonder, Oh, where is she?”

“I’m in my jammies, not my underwear.”

She got a beer out of the fridge and drank it.

“Are you serious?” asked Randy.

“I guess that really depends on what you mean, doesn’t it? Do you think it’s a sign of a serious person to drink a beer at eight forty-five in the morning? Because I guess I think that makes it seem like I’m not really taking this very seriously.”

“What do you mean, this?”

“You know,” said Megan. She gestured vaguely to the apartment with her beer can.

“Oh my god, you’re being so dramatic and corny right now I could shoot you,” said Randy. Megan stood at the window with her back to him and finished the can of beer. “If someone else did this and I told you about it, you would make fun of that person.”