"do you think i'm pretty," she asks.
he pauses and shuffles over till his face is right next to hers.
"honestly?"
"yeah"
"i think you're more than pretty; you're almost too pretty actually - could you tone it down a little please"
she rolls her eyes; tries not to smile. "you're full of shit,"
"i'm serious - i feel sorry for all the girls who have to stand next to you in the subway or in an elevator. i feel sorry for all the guys on earth who never got a chance to hold you."
"well. that's really sweet of you to say"
"it's the truth"
she scoffs. "that's not the truth"
"what do you mean?"
"that can't be the truth. it's too smooth -- too romantic to be truth"
---
it's only in waking that we question the absurd, only out of dreaming that the word 'surreal' possesses meaning
---
"you doctors work twenty-four hours a day, don't you? You're always in demand."
she smiles
"Sometimes twenty-five,"
---
a world that punishes you for being honest
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