How long have we been here?
Where’s here?
Hoboken, 1972. A field
across from the Gimbals.
Oh. I thought you were speaking
ontologically.
No. You lost your head a
few seconds ago.
I know I lost my head for a
bit. That’s irrelevant—
No. I mean you lost your
head a few seconds ago. We
were in a plane, remember,
trying to make it into the mile-
high club, trying to pretend that
when we landed we were
going to see each other again,
I wasn’t going to go back to
just being another boring
school teacher, and you
weren’t just going to forget
about me like all your other
rock star conquests.
Seriously. I don’t have a head
anymore? That is going to make
it remarkably difficult to play
the drums, won’t it?
I’d say.
How come you’re so calm? I mean
we just had a messy plane crash
which clearly sliced my head clean
off my body and now you’re cradling
the bloody mass of my skull like
a baby doll.
Why am I so calm? Because I
caused this all to happen.
I was the one who made sure
I’d be the one woman you’d
never forget, the one person
who wouldn’t wind up as your
discarded cum rag.
You what?
I caused the plane crash. You
weren’t supposed to die
though.
That’s lovely.
Clearly I wasn’t thinking
rationally. Come on. I’m
obviously a little crazy. I
watched seventy people
die and rather than call
an ambulance, I’m sitting
in a field outside a shopping
mall, cradling your head.
Well, I wouldn’t give you an Sanity
award. How exactly did you think
you were going to survive?
Who said I was supposed
to survive?
Oh.
: andy l. kubai : writer : 