She stood in the kitchen, leaning against the granite counter near the plastic champagne flutes. He brought over the newly popped bottle, filling a plastic cup to overflowing for her, and another for him. "Why did you delete all those pictures from the wedding?"
He eyed her curiously as she took a sip, spoke. "Oh, well, everyone had already seen them and I don't really like having pictures of me on that world wide web thing." Another sip. A blueberry floated to the rim of her glass. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, I was talking about you with someone and I wanted to show him one of those pictures of us," he replied, his voice suddenly quieter, barely audible above the buzz swarming around them.
She was shocked. "Talking about me? About what?"
He looked at her again, not eyeing this time, but contemplating, gauging. "About how we have our own little inside joke."
She chuckled at this. "Huh. I never thought about it before. But you're right, we do."
"Since the first time we met," a smile creeping across his face now.
There was a pause. The music had been suddenly, inexplicably silenced. She sighed, and the music started back up again. "I don't think our little joke is very funny anymore."
"Me neither."
Inside jokes are overrated.
ReplyDeleteOK, no they're not.
seriously though, there is nothing sadder than when inside jokes stop being funny. and i speak from experience, as all of my inside jokes are now the exact OPPOSITE of funny.
ReplyDeleteWhat about Polaroid?
ReplyDeletepolaroid is on a whole 'nother plane.
ReplyDeleteI'd like to learn about that world wide web thing.
ReplyDeleteThat thing she said—you know, the true thing, right near the end—it really hurts.
ReplyDelete