She barely looks to me before those fated words fall carelessly from her lips.
“You know what you signed up for.”
The veracity of the situation is that I know little, beyond my disdain of Freddie Prinze Jr movies and that familiar ‘65 Ford Mustang rolling into the San Fernando Valley sunset.
And as an audience member of one, I remain unmoved in this scratchy theater seat – for though I can predict the ending without the foreshadowing from everyone I know – I am chained to this rock, to you, ‘til death or insanity dashes in on his white steed and salvages my common sense from the wreckage.
They say every tragedy has a hero – well, this is no Greek fairy tale. All this is boils down to half a decade that I’ll be begging back for at 29.