“How the hell does this lie-detector-shitting-thing work, anyway?”
“Rhetorical question?” An eyebrow goes up, a friendly kind of a smirk appears, but she doesn’t see it.
“Yes…” She looks up, semi-distracted and annoyed with herself, annoyed with him. “Hell yes, rhetorical. You didn’t actually expect me to expect you to tell me how to get the machine to work that would help me find out what the hell’s really going on with you, right? I mean, come on, give me some credit, Sparky.”
He smiles again. This time it looks genuine. Maybe.
“I do give you…some credit, as you say. But I’ve also known you long enough to know you have to be walked through anything technology-based.” He pauses, waits for memories to start whirring. “Remember learning to italicize in the comments? That took quite a walk-through, did it not?”
“Yes…” She doesn’t want to say it, but there you go. It’s the truth.
“And who walked you through that one?”
“You know damn well, it was you.”
“But that’s just it.” She fiddles with the straps and the gears until a fuckit and a frown, coming both from her and to her, stop her cold. But he’s still smiling. Dammit. Yah. He’s all happy. So she says: “Who the hell are you? I wouldn’t haveta mess with all these wires and clip deals and buttons…and who knows, one of them could shock you or something, and we couldn’t be having any of that.” She turns the machine off. “So just say it.”
He’s still smiling.
“Look. I’ve had more substantive conversations with you then I ever had with The Sperm Depositor a/k/a my ex, but these knowledge epiphanous ‘talks’ are feeling pretty pretend now. So….who are you?”
“Do any of us really know who we are?”
“Don’t try that shit on with me, Sparky.” She smacks her hands together. “That’s it. No more Googling. No more lie-detector crap. I’m goin’ for the masculine jugular. I’m gonna get in your pants.”
That eyebrow of his really shoots up this time, and she sees it, and this time, she’s the one smiling.
“Your ID’s gotta be in your wallet…in your back pocket. Am I right?”