I’m dead tired and decide to take a nap when Sam calls and asks if I’m free for coffee. For her, I’d drop everything and pick her up wherever she is, drive her wherever she wants and let her buy me whatever she thinks I should drink.
What the fuck? Where’s my Merc? Why are you driving this car?, she says as I pick her up.
I love you too. Very much.
What happened to my fucking seat recline settings? What the fuck have you done to my seat?
And she’s not very happy when I tell her that with this car, there’s no electric seat thingie button where you can set and memorize the seat recline settings because this is not a whiz-bang fancy classic car the Merc was, and that I am now too poor to own a Merc.
Sam berates me all the way to coffee, where we don’t order our regular coffees because the weather, she is too hot. We get a coupla iced teas instead, and Sam, bless her fucking heart, starts reminding me of the good ol’ days when we used to drive around the island and sing songs in the car and stuff.
So, who’s Skip? She must be really fucking happy you wrote about her.
Skip’s fiction. Just as Sam is.
Yeah, I know you fucking told me that, but I am Sam, what.
Sam is a bit of you, but you are not Sam.
You’re such a fucking wanker, and I don’t say fuck all that much, can? Can you don’t write me like that?
OK, I’ll try.
Fuck, you better, can?
After coffee (tea), I drive Sam home, and she wants to sing at the top of her voice in the car again. Just like old times. But unlike old times, Sam now has an iPod with iTrip and proceeds to tune the car stereo to the right frequency, and selects a playlist on the iPod she’s specially assembled.
Bless her fucking heart, it’s a playlist of the songs we (she) used to listen to when we used to drive around the island and sing songs in the car and stuff.