That which we call a Rose

Cute Boy enters party from stage left.

Me: Hi, I’m Bekah. Welcome to my roof.

Cute Boy: Hi, I’m Augie.

Me: No you’re not.

Cute Boy: What?

Me: No it’s not.

Cute Boy: Um….?

(A moment in which I simultaneously consider monologuing, kissing him spontaneously or throwing myself off said roof.)

Me:…It’s a great name.

Cute Boy: Thanks! Is there beer, or –?

Me: Downstairs.

Cute Boy exits through the door through which he came.


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