So they have this sheet of bubblewrap, see. And they're popping it, and talking. They sit cross-legged in that comfortable way that people have who are used to meditation.
Oz is rocking slightly, side to side, and he answers Buffy's unspoken question. "Listening to music. You don't listen to music much, huh?"
"Nah," Buffy says, moving in time. "I'm more of a staring at photographs wistfully girl."
"It's a fine hobby."
"A past time, even," Buffy says brightly.
They have this sheet of bubblewrap, see. And they're popping it and talking. The bubblewrap is like... they have opposite ends of it and they're popping it towards the middle.
Oz pushes his thumb across the sheet and pops two bubbles at once. "Music isn't a hobby though; you get that, right?" he says sharply.
Buffy's still rocking. "I got that right."
Oz nods. "You got rhythm."
"I do," she agrees.
It's cold, kinda windy, and they have both scrunched up their eyes against the sand. Buffy's hair is dry and ripples like streamers. It rustles, her hair, and the plastic pops: it's insistent. A beat.
She looks around at the wide expanse of nothing. "Desert's kinda empty these days."
"It's a feature," Oz observes.
"Not been here for a while," Buffy mumbles to herself.
Pop. "Also par for the course."
It's just this thing that happened one time. But the bubblewrap is super-important.
"How come we're together anyway?" Buffy says.
"Oh, make it a dream," Oz shrugs. "You don't have to analyse dreams."
Buffy rolls her eyes and changes the subject. "Where have you been this past forever?"
Oz smiles at his mistake. "Dreaming."
So the bubblewrap is like a layer of icy blue and it warps the sand and ochre beneath it like old, old glass run to the bottom of a window.
They stand up at the same time and Buffy says, "You know we're the exact same height?"
"Clearly we're meant to be," Oz replies.
"A perfect fit."
Oz reaches forward and pops the last bubble saying, "You have unusual values."
And then it's just trash. Junk plastic. Buffy folds the punctured plastic and puts it in her pocket. Littering is not socially responsible.
"So, what do you think?" she says, looking straight into Oz's eyes.
Oz looks around. "About what?"
She smiles and says, "Coming to play in my sandbox."
"Depends. Are you going to play nice?" Oz asks intently.
"Never."
