It could be worse... his name could be T-Bag...

"Don't you and Tim ever fight?"

Everyone asks me that. Believe me, we do.

Tuesday, January 3, 2006, 7:07pm
Steve's house

Tim asks me a long, complicated question, and I answer with a grunted "Yeah", without looking up from my Excel spreadsheet.

"If you're too busy to talk, you could at least be considerate enough to tell me before I start explaining something," she says.

"Didn't know it was going to be a ten-minute speech," I reply, and she storms from the room with a frustrated growl.

"You're so rude sometimes. You really made me angry," she says, after calming down.

"I tell you how busy I am. You're worried about how much work I have all the time. But then when I try to do it, you fucking badger me."

"I'm not badgering you! I'm trying to ask you a question!"

"Can't you see I'm busy, Tim?"

"Stop working for five minutes! Take a goddamn break!"

"Why? So I can stay up until 2:05 this morning instead of 2:00?"

"No! So you can have a life!"

The phone rings.

"We're not done, Steve," she replies, flipping her eyes at me. It's the same look she used to give me when she was dating Dom--or, more accurately, fucking him. It is an "I want you, but are you sure can you handle this?" look. Is it disrespectful that my heart flutters at her Cover Girl eyes while she's trying to yell at me?

"Hello?"

"Steve. Steve?"

"Greg. Greg?" I say, mocking his frantic tone. It's always something with my little brother.

"Steve, Dad's sick. He's really sick," he says, in a quivering voice.

"You mean he's--"

"The ambulance is here. The paramedics are giving--they're doing CPR. Steve, they're doing CPR on Dad!"

"Greg, take a deep breath, okay buddy? It's going to be alright."

"Steve, what do I do? They can't revive him! He's not breathing!"

"Greg, calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down! He's dying!"

"Is Nancy there? Put her on the phone."

"Steve? Oh, Steve," she whimpers.

"Please tell me he's breathing."

"Oh, Steve."