I stepped on it.
Her: (teary) In times of crisis, a lot of couples end up becoming closer. I need you to help see me through this.
Him: I thought I was made of stronger stuff… I’m not. In this case, I think you’re better off without me.
Her: You fucker. Does for better or worse mean anything to you?
Him: This isn’t “worse”… this is “weird”. I never said for better or for weird. I don’t know how to handle this. I can’t compartmentalize this in my brain…
Plus… it kinda makes me dry heave a little.
Her: (quietly) I’ve heard of people living completely normal lives after something like this.
Her: NO ONE NEEDS ALL TEN TOES! And it’s just the pinky… it’s the least important one!
Him: I can’t do it! I’m so so sorry! My life would change too dramatically. We’d have to move somewhere cold so you’d never have to wear sandals. I’d have to give up my favorite sports party snack of cocktail wieners. You’d have to wear socks while we make love. And I’ll always have to walk on your right side… because you, you know… tilt, a little…
Her: Are you fucking kidding me? (picking up a picture of them) Do you see this picture? Do you remember this Christmas? Remember when you said you’d love me even if I lost all my hair in some freak hairspray and Christmas light accident?
Him: Hair grows back…
Look, if you lost a leg, or even an ear. I would have to stay because it would make me a huge dick if I left you. But this… this is just small enough… that I’m sure in time… everyone will forgive me.
Her: Just small enough??
Him: It’s not that you lost a toe, alright? It’s that you lost most of your toe. Most of it. There’s a nub. A nub. I can’t handle the nub. It moves back and forth. It sort of… wags… (he begins to gag)
Her: You asshole… (She throws the framed picture of the two of them out the window).
Him: (hearing it shatter) Don’t do that! That’s glass. Someone outside could step on that.
Her: Oh, God forbid someone step on it and injure their perfect five-toed foot!
Him: Now you know why the movie “The Box” gave me such horrible nightmares…
Her: GET OUT!
(He picks up a suitcase, grabs his ipod from the table, places a cheese-shaped, foam hat on his head, and walks silently out the door.)
*** I stepped on this picture… in the back alley, near my garage.
I don’t know how it got there.
That stuff up above?
I made that shit up.