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"uh, hey." he lowers the rifle scope to cast a sidelong look, obviously, justifiably, offended. "you want to try on a little confidence, maybe?"

as plans go, this one sits just left of conventional. two v. ten's not an impossible odd, but he's flexing creativity here in a practice round of tin can enemies, all scattered at random in the clearing. there's plenty of time to figure out some -- albeit, kinda dumb, astoundingly reckless -- shit to work with.

their real bump-in-the-nights won't be out to really bump 'til the night.

frankly, she could've asked to count the ceiling tiles and he'd be just as game. he palm presses the window above her sofa, a two-inch crack to let the breeze in. they're buried under a blanket, perma-denting the cushions to their slacked shapes, while her tv drones mindlessly in the background.

lazy days are a luxury on all sides. he can appreciate that. no competing with her coursework, no nowhere-town he's got to up and haul ass to; he hasn't thought to check his phone in hours.

if it's rude to laugh, it's probably ruder to spray beer in an emergency exit through his nose. dean manages to accomplish both these faux pas in one sputtery wet take -- a classic, but, c'mon -- then crooks an elbow to recover in his sleeve.

"oh." once it dawns that's not a punchline. "we talking, like, rain man?"

has she always lived in new york? he's rotten with accents.