Holed up in her room, Kate and Julian sat with their drinks in their laps, listening to records. Neither spoke much. She watched him, tall and handsome with his back against the wall, his long legs stretched out toward her at the other end of the bed. She sipped her beer, listening to the soft crackling of her record player, and downstairs she could hear her the nasally voice of her roommate's girlfriend, and she rolled her eyes.
"You're jealous," Julian said.
"That's not true."
"Sure it is. You want to be everyone's number one girl."
"Fuck off," she said. "What should I put on after this?"
"I don't care."
"You do. You've complained about every record I put on."
He leaned forward, smiling. "I don't understand why you don't just play your damn music on your computer like a normal person."
"I like records. They sound better."
"They don't. Sometimes I think you're stupid. Put anything on, I don't care." He was quiet as she changed the record. Then, "Why are you jealous of Mark's girlfriend?"
"I told you. I'm not jealous. She's just awful."
"She's not awful."
"You can't stand her."
"No. But I can't stand anyone."
Kate nodded. "True."
"Fuck you. You're a bitch."
"What? You're the one who said it."
"I happen to be very friendly."
"You're not. You're a terrifying presence."
"Shut your mouth."
She did. A few minutes went by, the two of them nursing their drinks, listening. She wasn't jealous and he knew it -- he just liked getting her worked up.
"Stupid bitch."
"What the fuck, Jules."
"Get me another beer."
"Get it yourself."
"No. Get it for me."
"You're a jerk." But she did it; she got up and padded across her room the mini-fridge that held her emergency stash of beer.
"Now dance for me."
She laughed as she handed him the drink. "Fuck yourself."
"Come on, dance for me. Give an old guy a thrill."
"No. Shut up."
"You're supposed to say I'm not old," he muttered.
"Ah, but you are." She hopped back onto the bed. "Practically thirty. It's disgusting. Everybody's talking about it."
He was quiet, listening, watching her speak. Then, "I should strangle you."
"You're sweet."
He said nothing. Again, a quietness settled between them. She grabbed another beer for herself, flipped the record, sat back down. He could tell she was tipsy. Such a lightweight, like a little girl.
"You want to take it easy?" He said.
"No, do you?"
"Maybe you should slow down."
"I'm fine."
"You're tipsy."
"Barely."
"Come on, kid."
She glared at him. "Don't call me kid."
"I'll call you whatever the fuck I want to call you, kid."
"You know I hate it."