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I’m vaguely aware of the conversation going on beside us. The table (with the exception of Guy On His Phone and Dudley) are discussing the likelihood of Tiff winning an Oscar for her role as the titular character in an off-Broadway production of Matilda.
The conversation is nonsensical for multiple reasons, but hysterical because of just how serious Tiff seems to be.
“I just want to thank people. Is that so wrong?” she asks, suddenly very emotional.
The women and their dogs nod encouragingly. The blonde woman pats her on the shoulder. Paul looks like he’d like a bullet to the brain as a digestif.
“Your performance was darling!” Dog Woman #1 croons. “Of course you’ll win!”
“Really?” Tiff asks, wiping an eye that has no tears coming from it. “Did you see me?”
“Of course honey. I saw it on the spectral plane,” the woman says with complete seriousness and not missing a beat.
Tiff looks confused. “Is that the Emirates new airliner?” she asks.
Dog Woman #1 opens her mouth to begin what is bound to be a batshit explanation when Bill talks over her. “You can’t win an Oscar,” he says through a mouthful of pudding.
Tiff lunges back as if she’s been slapped. The Dog Women’s hands (paws?) fly to their mouths. Dudley gasps.
In her agitation, Tiff turns on her boyfriend. “Dudley! You can’t talk!” she exclaims.
“I didn’t! I gasped!” he says. Then, “Ah shit.” He sinks his head into his hands. “Grand Master is going to kill me,” he moans.
“Now look what you’ve done!” Tiff shrieks at Bill.
Bill is still holding his spoon in mid-air, frozen at the scene he inadvertently created.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I only meant that—”
“It’s okay, Tiff,” Marie says over him. “It’s just that Bill has very firm ideas on the bounds of what is and isn’t possible.”
“Oh we’re doing this now?” Bill asks, putting down his spoon. “The superconductor was a bad idea, Marie.”
“It was not!”
“I should have just let you do it so this debate would finally die.”
“It would have worked. I did the math myself.”
Bill rolls his eyes. “Like that’s saying much.”
Marie flushes and for some reason, her eyes dart to Liz before any of her other friends, all of whom are watching the burgeoning argument like one might watch a car commercial — eyes glazed over, waiting for something more interesting to be on.
“Should I remind you who helped who study for Calc?” she hisses.
“Helped study. Doesn’t mean I learned much,” he mutters.
“Then why the hell did you even have me over?”
“Hell if I can remember!” Bill barks. He stands, throws his napkin down and storms from the room.
Marie stands too and leaves the opposite way.
The fight is so fast and so explosive that it leaves the room in a stunned and incredibly awkward silence.
Finally, the quiet is broken by Tiff. “I just don’t know why he’d say something so mean,” she says, sniffing.
“I don’t think he was trying to be mean,” Liz says. “He meant you can’t win an Oscar for a play. Oscars are for film.”
