Garlic, Crucifixes, and Hotel California
“Whatcha doing?” Rivi asks, looking over my shoulder at my phone.
“Well, I was enjoying my personal space,” I say.
“That ship has sailed, hit an iceberg, and sunk,” she says. She reaches over and taps my phone with her finger. “Playlisting, huh?”
I bat her hand away. “Don’t get your DNA all over everything.”
“You have no idea where my DNA is around here,” she says. “I’ve been all over your house by now.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“All. Over. It.” She taps my phone again. “What’s going in your list?”
I push her hand away again. “Music to download. Stuff for offline.”
“Ew. Offline. Who wants to be offline?”
“I’m future proofing,” I say. “I keep running out of data on my cell plan and I need music for when I’m driving or bored at work.”
“You’re a data miser,” she says. “I didn’t think you ever ran out.”
I shrug. “I don’t know what the deal is, but it’s been running out the past couple of months. It’s making me crazy.”
“Probably all of those photos I keep sending you,” she says. “I’m not going to stop, of course.”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking, mostly because you won’t listen to me.”
“You need more pictures of my sink drain. And the inside of my coat pocket. And my vampire girlfriend.”
“I don’t have any pictures of your vampire girlfriend. Just a lot of your selfies.”
“She’s in the pictures, silly,” Rivi says. “Vampires don’t show up in photos.”
“Of course. My mistake.”
“Exactly. Glad you’re taking ownership of this. Now send me your playlist.”
“It’s not done,” I say. “You wouldn’t like it anyway.”
“Not for you to say, monkey boy. Send me the list and then I’ll decide.”
“I know what you like. You won’t want this.”
“Well, what is it?” she asks.
“It’s all just songs that I don’t ever skip past when they show up in my shuffles. I’m not saying that they are all great songs, it’s just that when they come up, I let them play through to the end.”
“You do have terrible taste in music, really,” Rivi says. “All that seventies and eighties junk. People recorded music after the Berlin Wall fell, you know.”
“I don’t have the energy to argue with you,” I say.
“You like The Eagles,” she says. “That alone makes my point.”
“See? You won’t like this playlist then.”
“Send it to me anyway. I’ll let it be a test of my strength and perseverance.”
“Let your vampire listen to it. She’s a thousand years old, just like me. She’d probably like something on it.”
“Miette’s a hundred and fifty-six, not a thousand. Plus vampires hate The Eagles. It’s a recorded fact.”
“Sure,” I say. “Garlic, crucifixes, and Hotel California. Obviously.”
Rivi flicks her finger against the back of my head. “Don’t be sassy. Just send me your playlist.”
“Fine.” I tap my phone and send her a link to the list. “You really take it to the limit sometimes, Rivi.”
“Is that an Eagles joke?” She flicks me with her finger again. “Don’t quote Eagles lyrics at me. It wouldn’t be funny even if I knew what you were talking about.”
“You know what I’m talking about. You can’t hide your lyin’ eyes, Rivi.”
“You’re a monster. I’m getting out of here before I have to strangle you.” She starts to head for the door.
“You can check out, Rivi, but you can never leave.”
“I’m already gone!” she shouts, going out the door and slamming it shut behind her.
I don’t know if she knows she just quoted an Eagles lyric, but I decided to count it as a win.
I can’t tell you why.
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