"So how 'bout them Mets?" It's an old joke. She laughs tiredly, because it isn't funny anymore. Then she looks up and he is watching her with that bitter smile.

"Are you better than you're faking?" she asks suddenly.

"What?"

"Nothing. I don't know. Only nothing is ever serious, is it?" She rests her head on the table, not looking at him. She's sick, sick to death of this, but she can't say it, because it's not funny.

"I don't know," he says, frustrated. He rubs the back of his neck and she looks at his other hand on the table, holding a cigarette. A habit he's trying to quit, but its too much sometimes, he says. Easier not to, easier to not think about what it does to me, just die one day at a time. "Except that laughing is easier sometimes," he says.

"Is it? I guess it is. Better than this. We used to be different though."

He reaches out, tilts her head to look at her eyes. "Were we? Maybe we were." He laughs, because it isn't funny.


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