“That’s what you said, pads with wings.” He turns to Sanders, whose eyes are bouncing back and forth between the two of us. “She said pads with wings! What the hell am I supposed to assume?”

“If you knew me, like you claim you do, you’d have known that I was talking about the type of pads that have wings attached to them.”

“How am I supposed to know that when you won’t even talk to me about your period? I don’t know what you’ve got going on down there. And it’s not from a lack of effort on my end. I’ve asked to help.”

“You’ve asked to insert my tampon,” I deadpan.

He throws his hands up in the air. “I was curious. It was for science!”

“Don’t you dare say it,” Wilder says, shaking his head. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

I run my tongue over my teeth and very slowly and deliberately say, “Bologna.”

His nostrils flare.

His chest heaves.

And in a very maniacal voice, his eyes boring holes into me, he says, “You son of a bitch.”

“I think we should all take a moment to remember the breathing exercises we learned a few seconds ago,” Sanders says.

But Wilder holds his hand out to him. “You stay out of this.” Then he gets close to me and whispers, “Say it again. I dare you.”

Wetting my lips, I lean even closer and whisper, “Bologna.”

“You…strumpet.”

“Bologna, bologna, bologna.”

“No!” he screeches, holding his hands to his ears. “Don’t you dare Beetlejuice me. Don’t you fucking dare.” He glances over his back, checking around the room. “Is it here? Is he here?”

I point off to the window and yell, “There he is.”

Wilder lets out an ear-splitting scream and then falls to the ground and shimmies under the coffee table. “You devil woman.”

“Is that a hint of horseradish I’m detecting?” Wilder asks as we chow down on our lunch.

“A homemade sauce,” Sanders says with a nod.

“Really brings out the roast beef flavor, don’t you think, Pips?”

“Delightful.” I lift my bag of chips to Wilder. “Barbecue?”

“Yeah, thanks, babe.”

“Do you see what I’m dealing with?” I say as I walk around the room, a hockey stick up against my shoulder like a bayonet while Wilder lies across the couch, tossing the baseball up and down.

“So I have to take interest in her love of cacti, but she can’t bother to learn the correct Pokémon names?” He sits up. “It’s Jigglypuff. For fuck’s sake, it’s Jigglypuff!”

“No…one…cares.”

“Everyone cares,” he shouts, his voice cracking.

“You should see it,” I say. “He stands there, tilting his head back, gargling and gargling and gargling, only to throw his head forward and spit the mouthwash all over the mirror. It’s absurd. Where’s the accuracy?”