"Okay, so are you . . . ever going to tell me your name?" Claude asked. 

        "I mean, I could . . ."

        "Is that a yes?"

        "More like a maybe."

        "Why not a yes?"

        "Because you're ugly."

        "It's rude to discriminate against people just based off of their looks," he retorted. 

        I raised my eyebrows (at the road, because obviously I was paying attention while I'm driving). "Well, it's rude of you to subjugate people to your ugliness. How about dem apples?'

        Claude groaned. "Can't you just tell me your name?"

        "Why don't you guess it?"

        "Because there's like thirty billion names out there," he reasoned. 

        I rolled my eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. There's not even that many people in the world and, assuming everyone had a different name which they don't 'cause I know like four different Sarah's, would make that impossible. Boo-yah, bitch."

        "I seriously want to kill you right now."

        "Is it because I won't share my Slice with you?"

        Claude scowled. "You don't have a slice of anything. You have like four different types of cookies, three types of Cheetos-"

        "Hey, it's important to try cheese in different formats," I reasoned. 

        "-And probably around ten candy bars, all of which I bought, so I would know if you had a slice of anything," he concluded. 

        I reached to my cup holder and brought out my plastic cup of deliciousness which was my Slice. "See here, my Slice. Part slushy, part ice cream, thus a Slice. Take that, Matrix. I got the red pill and blue pill, so sue me."

        He shook his head. "You're an idiot."

        I raised my eyebrows (again, at the road). "How about you say that to my university diploma, which I got on a scholarship for being smart."

        "Your old enough to go to college?" 

        "Um, yes."

        "You look like you're seventeen."

       "Wait, so you willingly went on a road trip with someone you thought was a minor?" I demanded. "That's creepy. And stupid. Also, you have to be at least twenty-five to rent a car from most places."

        Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his cheeks becoming redder. "I didn't really think about it.. I just wanted to get home to my family."

        I couldn't help but soften at his soft tone. I mean, sure, he was incredibly annoying and pushy and he had terrible people skills, but when you looked at him . . . really, he was just a kid. With his closely cropped sandy hair and big blue eyes and his wide sharp facial structure, he looked so young. And can we talk about his big square glasses? He looked like fucking Peter Parker. Who the fuck doesn't love Spiderman?

        "I'm Bea," I murmured. 

        "Bea?" He repeated. 

        "Oui, oui," I responded shooting him a sideways smirk. "Je m'appelle Bea. See? Even I know French."

        "Casse-toi," he replied, but the slightest of smiles was playing on his pink lips. I don't think I had ever seen him smile. "You probably learned that in, like, sixth grade."

        "Um, fifth grade. Get your facts straight," I retorted. 

        He snickered slightly, short and brief. Another first from him: laughter. 

        "Just so you know, though, just because you know my name . . . well, don't expect me to be sharing any of my Slice with you," I informed him. 

        There was that laugh again, short and sweet. I was surprised to find that I actually liked the sound of his laughter. "Your whole bargaining chip for this trip was food, I wouldn't be expecting anything less of you."

        I grinned, but didn't respond. 

        "So, Bea. . . is there anything significant behind that name?" He mused.

        "Are you asking if there's something significant about the name itself, or if there's anything significant about me besides my name?" I asked. "Because, I'll have you know, I am awesome an-"

        "The first one," Claude said quickly, interrupting me. 

        I would've shrugged if I hadn't been driving at the moment. The history behind my name is as bland as any Sarah or Emma or Julie.  "I don't know, not really, I guess. It's short for Beatrix, which I guess is a somewhat common German name."

        "You don't look German to me," he responded. 

        "Normally, I'd insult you for stereotyping me, but I won't because I'm not German." I said. "That's, um, where my parents met, Germany. During Octoberfest, of all places. There they were at this infamous festival for drinking beer and this English guy meets this Spanish beauty a-and . . . yeah. That's it. Another one of those phony love-at-first-sight cliches where they loved each forever. A real Happily Ever After."

        I tightened my grip on the wheel, staring ahead on the road at that little line where the road suddenly vanished into the horizon. There was nothing spectacular about the world beyond the road at this moment, and I knew there never would. Sure, somewhere along the way the road would end and fade into a city, into the sea, but it was all just this big, beautiful, empty space that human beings filled with their fucking polluted clutter. I hated it but I kept on staring because anything was better than the penetrating stare that I knew Claude would give me if I looked at him. 

        "Are you parents divorced?" Claude asked, gently. 

        I blinked, startled by his question. I looked at everything I hated because I still couldn't look at him. "Why would you say that?"

        "Well, you said loved, past tense . . ." Claude trailed off. "Sorry, that's really personal. You don't have to answer. It isn't any of my business."

        "You're right, it isn't," I said, quietly. I didn't want to talk about this anymore. 

        "Right."

        He was silent for a moment, then-

        "Besides, I wouldn't want to make you cry or anything," he informed me. "You know, with your designer mascara and all."

        "You tell the absolute worst jokes ever," I told him, but I couldn't help the trace of a smile that was tugging on my lips. 

        "Maybe that's why my career in stand-up comedy hasn't taken off yet," Claude mused. 

        I snorted. "But what do you do, actually?"

        "Me?"

        "No, the other person who's in the car with us."

        He scowled, before glancing over his shoulder. 

        I started laughing. "You're so dense. Ever consider sarcasm?"

        Claude blushed. "Sometimes it's hard to pick it up with you."

        "I use it like every other sentence."

        "Exactly."

        "You're weird, Claude Some-French-Last-Name-Probably," I told him. 

        "And you're just jealous, Bea-That's-Short-For-Beatrix," he replied. 

        "But seriously," I intruded. "What do you do for a living?"

        "I'm a journalist," he informed me. 

        My eyebrows just about flew off my face. "Really?"

        "What's so shocking about that?" He questioned. 

        "Well . . . look at you. Rather, listen to yourself," I corrected myself. I couldn't help but grin at the thought. "I mean, you're a horrible communicator."

        "I take great offense to that," he said. 

        "You say what instead of pardon and you didn't even know my name until a couple of minutes ago," I reminded him. "And your telling me that your job is to run around interviewing people and reporting world news to our community?"

        "Um, yes."

        "Un-fucking believable," I muttered. "What paper do you work for? The Daily Prophet?"

        "The New York Times," he told me. 

        "Really?"

        "I still find your tone of surprise offensive," he reminded me. 

        "Duly noted." I glanced over at him. "Are you sure you're not bull-shitting me?"

        "Yes," he responded. "But I will be shitting you if you don't keep your eyes on the road."

        "Whatever, Dad."

        "Well, what about you then?" He demanded. "If it's so surprising that I'm a journalist, what sort of job is suited for a maniac like yourself?"

        "I'm not a maniac-" I started. 

        "What do you do for a living?" Claude interrupted. 

        I sighed. "I'm a grief counselor." 

        Claude started laughing. 

        I frowned. "I have half a mind to drive into a ditch right now."

        He was still laughing. 

        And laughing. 

        Laughing. 

        "I will chop off your balls and eat them if you don't fucking shut up," I snapped. 

        But he hadn't heard my (very seriously intended) threat over his laughter. And, to be honest, after listening to him laugh like that for almost three minutes straight with no knowledge of when he was going to stop, I was ready to murder him. 

        "Are you sure you aren't in stand-up comedy?" Claude asked me, wiping a fucking tear from his face. "That was the funniest thing I have ever heard in my life."

        "I think that may be an exaggeration."

        "No, not really," he responded. 

        "Well, I don't happen to think my job is very funny," I retorted.

        "No, it's the fact that you do it that's funny," he insisted. 

        "How so?"

        "Because you're so . . . you," he said. "You're erratic and terrifying and weird and I just can't imagine anyone going to you when they have a problem."

        "Well, ouch."

        "Sorry."

        "You're not sorry," I said. 

        "I-"

        "And I'll have you know that I'm incredible at my job," I said. 

        "I never said you weren't," he reasoned. 

        "Actually you sort of did," I snapped. "So if you could just be quiet, that would be great. And here i was thinking that maybe I'd share my Slice with you."