2008
Megan stepped out on the back porch, watching the rain beat mercilessly on her fading tomato plants, thinking about New York. Thinking about Chandler Bing. Thinking about Monica Geller.
Thinking about Monica Geller in Chandler Bing's hotel room.
She popped the top off her beer against the railing in one deft -- if a little more violent than entirely necessary -- motion.
She had no right to be jealous. No right.
She pushed at her wedding ring with her thumb, relieving the pressure there. Her ring wasn't too small, not at all... it just felt that way. Some days it felt like it was cutting off the circulation in her entire body... every part of her atrophing from lack of blood flow.
She lit a cigarette and sighed.
She and Chandler had built this porch together, one sunny June afternoon. The whole porch thing had been Keith's idea to begin with... he'd bought the lumber, bought the screens, bought the paint... and then the whole pile had leaned against the trailer for a year.
It had been one of the best days of her life. Sweaty and nasty and slapping at mosquitoes, laughing her ass off as Chandler had switched from imitating Bob Vila to Christopher Lowell, overwhelmed with the pleasure of being with him, of creating something with him.
There was something in the way they worked together that called to her, took her over... a rhythm they fell into, an effortless synchronization between them that was weirdly and powerfully erotic. One purpose, one mind, two parts of a whole.
The majority of the sex she'd had in her life didn't do to her insides what handing Chandler Bing a two-by-four did.
And that day... with the heat making every part of her body slide against the rest, with him ripping off his t-shirt and tossing it on the woodpile, with his sweaty locks of hair curving elegantly over his brow... she'd been lost.
She'd dropped a piece of plywood, and he'd caught it... arms coming up from either side, holding it away from her face, trapping her in the circle of his arms, her back pressed to his bare chest, the haze of him all around her, the smell of him thick in her brain.
And he'd bent his face to her neck, and inhaled deeply before gently moving the plywood away.
It was those moments that confused her, those moments when their eyes would meet over a stack of work, those moments when she'd look up from editing and catch him watching her, his face soft and dreaming. She'd been telling herself for years that there was nothing there... that it was all her, her overactive imagination seeing what it wanted to see... but her body disagreed.
Her body *really* disagreed.
The screen door banged, but Megan didn't turn around.
"I'm home," Keith said. She heard the jangle of his car keys, thrown onto their picnic table.
"How was your meeting?"
"Good. Really good. They're very interested."
Keith waited, watching the rigid triangles of Megan's shoulderblades through her dress. She inhaled, exhaled. Strings of blue smoke wrapped themselves around her.
Keith picked at a flake of paint on their doorframe. "You're not going to say anything?"
"I said everything I had to say last night."
"Look, Megan... he's a great guy, but we don't owe him the rest of our lives."
"Your life, Keith. *Your* life. I'm not the one who wants to move." She flicked ashes angrily in the general direction of the tray.
"Baby, we can't *stay* here. It's fine for Chandler... he built a career for himself in New York *before* he came here. We're not going to get anywhere living a million miles from anything... and you know it."
"My parents are here. My life is here."
"You mean *he's* here."
Megan rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I don't want to have this discussion again."
"Well, that's great," Keith muttered, dropping into a deck chair. "Let's just fight about everything else, like we always do, and pretend *he's* not what we're really arguing about."
"He's what *you're* arguing about, Keith. What has he ever done to you?"
"You mean, besides casting me as Paul Henreid for the rest of my damned life?"
"You're not Paul Henreid."
"I'm not stupid, either."
Violence caught at her heart for a moment... a blind, red urge to rip her ring off and whip it at his forehead. She took a deep breath.
"Screw it," Keith muttered, pushing his chair back and slamming through the back door.
Megan relaxed a little, sighing deeply. Keith didn't know... couldn't realize... and of course, she'd never tell him... that he owed his marriage to Chandler Bing in more ways than he imagined. Not just because Chandler had thrown them together... or because Chandler had depressed her to the point of some seriously flawed matrimonial decision making.
Being around Chandler put enough romance into Megan's life that she could stand being married to Keith.
And that was the horrible truth.
***
Chandler ducked into the Geller's guest bathroom, fumbling for his cellphone in his suit pocket. Monica had finally remembered his wee-hours phone call.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Keith... it's Chandler."
"Hey, man."
"Monica said I got a call from you guys this morning. Everything okay down there?"
"I didn't call... it must have been Megan."
"Yeah, that's what Monica thought... she said she sounded kinda upset?"
"Ohhhh, okay. Yeah, she *was* kinda upset this morning."
"Anything I can do to help?"
"Not really, man... but thanks. She's just a little bummed out because we're moving to California."
Chandler's knees gave out, and he sat down on the toilet lid with a heavy thump. "You're... you're what?"
"I got this awesome job offer, man. Don't worry, I'll still be able to do your stuff, no problem."
"W-when are you leaving?"
"Right away. ASAP, man."
"Can I speak to Megan?"
"She's not here... she went out for bubblewrap."
"Ah, okay, well... tell her I said hi. I'm sort of in a bathroom at a wake, so I gotta go."
"Okay, Chandler... take care."
Dial tone. Chandler slammed the cellphone into the tile, feeling a deep and violent pleasure as it crunched beneath his dress shoe.
"Chandler, are you okay in there?"
"Fine, Rach, just... dropped my cellphone."
"Well hurry up, okay? Pregnant people out here havin' to pee."
Right. Chandler shoved the broken plastic into his pants pocket and held the door open for Rachel, forcing a smile across his face. "All yours."
"Are you okay?" Rachel asked, but Chandler shut the bathroom door against her look of sympathy.
California. *Cali-friggin-fornia*.
First Joey, and now Megan? What was that state, some sort of happiness vacuum?
He was suddenly slammed against the wall, the plastic shards in his pocket digging painfully into his hip.
"Sorry... sorry..." Monica cried frantically.
"Mon?"
"Chandler... get me out of here. Get me out of here, *please*.
I'm going crazy, and my mom... my mom is making it so much worse... you are about to watch me sob into pate, I swear to God..."
"Do you want me to get everybody else?"
"They won't fit in the Porsche. Please. You drive. I couldn't drive right now." She pressed her keys into his palm, gazing up at him beseechingly.
"You have your coat?"
"Got mine, got yours, got everything... let's go."
***
"You can smoke, if you want to," Monica said softly as Chandler pulled up the parking brake.
Chandler's eyebrows shot skyward. "In the *Porsche*?"
"Of course not in the Porsche," Monica laughed. "I'm traumatized, I didn't have a brain transplant. I meant we could get out of the car."
Chandler opened his door and jogged around to open Monica's. "Where is this place, anyway?"
"Ross and I used to have a treehouse here, when we were kids," Monica smiled, wrapping her arms around her and looking out at the trees. "It was the cleanest, most organized fort *ever*."
"I can imagine."
Monica shivered, and Chandler wrapped his arm around her. She nestled into the warmth of him, pressing her face against the warm wool of his coat.
"There's still a little bit of the house up there," Monica said, pointing up a tree trunk. "You wanna go up?"
Chandler eyed the decades-old platform. "Is it safe?"
"Tonight? I don't care," Monica declared, grabbing a piece of wood nailed into the tree trunk and hoisting herself up.
"Ooookay," Chandler said nervously, following her lead. He reached the end of the makeshift ladder and hauled himself onto the platform. "Ohhh -- splinter in my ass, splinter in my *ass*."
"Lots of stars," Monica sighed.
"Yeah."
Monica turned to face him, pale face floating above her black mourner's dress. "You okay? You've been really quiet."
"I just got some news."
"What news?"
"I don't want to whine, Mon. Not tonight."
"C'mon. Take my mind off it. What news?"
"Megan and Keith are moving to California."
"Oh," Monica whispered.
"Yeah. Pretty much."
"I'm sorry."
"Me, too."
"Do you... do you have any other friends down there?"
"I know people."
"That's not the same thing."
"Yeah. It's not."
Monica reached out, stroked his sleeve. "You'll always have us, you know."
"I know... and believe me, that makes it better. It's just... I'm gonna be really, really lonely."
"Me too," Monica replied.
He reached out, and she went into his arms, reaching up with her hand to touch his cheek.
"Mon, it's just..."
And her lips were on his, warm and sweet, a memory, a habit. Her fingers curled into his hair, her other hand gripping his arm like she was drowning.
Which, he supposed, she was.
He hadn't realized how lonely his body had been, how starved for warmth and human contact. He sank into the kiss, leaning back against the sagging platform, his body moving into an old, familiar dance.
"Mon..."
She stopped him with another kiss, and he shook his head, putting space in between them. He took her wrists and gently pulled her hands away from his belt buckle.
"Mon... I think tomorrow... you'd be really unhappy about this."
"I'm so... cold, Chandler. Inside."
He raised her hands and kissed them. "This wouldn't warm you up. Not where you really needed it."
"I want him back, Chandler. This isn't fair. It's not *fair*."
"You're right... it's not."
"I don't want to be alone."
"I don't want to be alone, either... but Mon, we don't *work*. We *know* that we don't work."
"People change."
"We should go back to the hotel."
"Chandler... just... tell me you'll think about it. I know I'm screwed up right now... not thinking straight... and maybe tomorrow, I'll wake up and think 'God, what was I thinking?'..."
"Flattering," Chandler coughed.
Monica laughed. "You're welcome. But all the same... tonight... I think I'd feel better."
"I will think about it," Chandler said.
"Thank you."
"Okay... so... I have even more splinters in my ass now... can we go?"
Monica smiled. "Yeah. We can go."
***
"Did you remember your toothbrush?" Monica asked, pushing the restaurant door open.
"Mon, it's not that difficult. I just put everything into the suitcase that I took out of it."
"Sorry," she mumbled, gnawing at her thumbnail.
"Look. Do you want me to stay a few extra days? It would be no big deal."
"No, no, go home, it's good. Go home. I can't camp out in the Marriott forever, I have to go back to the apartment eventually."
"Yeah," Chandler said, eyes glinting. "Just think about how... *dusty* it must be getting..."
Monica hit him lightly. "Don't do that to me!"
"Hey, guys!" Phoebe called, motioning them over to a table.
Chandler set his suitcase down and slid into the booth. "Where's Joey?"
"Dunno, he hasn't come down yet," Ross said around a mouthful of eggs. "Not like him to miss a buffet."
"Looks like you're making up for him," Monica noticed, watching Ross quickly shovel bacon onto a slice of toast.
"Gotta take off in fifteen," Ross sighed. "I have a conference upstate."
"You must be *very* excited," Mike drawled to Rachel.
"Not going, actually," Rachel replied, rubbing her stomach. "Gonna go home and incubate. I'm starting leave early, and Emma's staying with the Gellers this weekend... I've got a hot date with Calgon and Cosmopolitan."
"Don't forget the Wives' Luncheon on Thursday," Ross reminded her, gulping orange juice.
"Oh, how could I forget. And *that*, I am *very* excited about. Woo-hoo," Rachel drawled.
"Give them a chance," Ross snapped. "They'd like you if you just put forth an *effort*."
The others looked around the table nervously, finding themselves sucked into what was apparently a very old discussion.
Rachel just sighed and touched her napkin. "Sure. Okay. I'll try."
"Thank you," Ross sighed, rubbing her back for a moment before tossing his napkin onto the table. "Gotta run, guys."
He chair-hugged all around, lingering on Monica. "Love you, sis. Call me if you need me."
She patted his hand. "Thanks."
"We should actually go too, if we want to make our plane," Mike said. "Mon, you need a ride home?"
"I have the car," Monica said. "I'll walk you guys out, though."
Another flurry of hugs, and Chandler and Rachel found themselves sitting alone at a table for nine.
"So what was that?" Rachel asked curiously, biting off a bit of bacon.
"What was what?"
"Monica, all whispery in your ear when she left. Is something going on?"
"No. Kinda. I dunno."
"What about Megan?"
"She's moving to California with her *husband*, so..."
"That's interesting."
"Oh, is that what we're calling gut-wrenching pain now?"
"Joey's here," Rachel replied.
He wasn't sure if that was an answer to his question or not.
"Hey, man," Chandler said as Joey dropped his duffel bag with a thump. "Better grab a plate, the buffet's almost over."
"I'm not hungry."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm sorry I'm late. I was on the phone, with my grandma." Joey stole a piece of Rachel's bacon and pointed it at Chandler. "Can I come and stay with you for a while?"
"Of course you can, Joe -- what the hell's going on?"
"Megan's still a notary public, right?"
"Um, the answer to your bizarre question would be 'yes', why?"
"Got some divorce papers for her to stamp," Joey spat, crunching into the bacon angrily.
Megan stepped out on the back porch, watching the rain beat mercilessly on her fading tomato plants, thinking about New York. Thinking about Chandler Bing. Thinking about Monica Geller.
Thinking about Monica Geller in Chandler Bing's hotel room.
She popped the top off her beer against the railing in one deft -- if a little more violent than entirely necessary -- motion.
She had no right to be jealous. No right.
She pushed at her wedding ring with her thumb, relieving the pressure there. Her ring wasn't too small, not at all... it just felt that way. Some days it felt like it was cutting off the circulation in her entire body... every part of her atrophing from lack of blood flow.
She lit a cigarette and sighed.
She and Chandler had built this porch together, one sunny June afternoon. The whole porch thing had been Keith's idea to begin with... he'd bought the lumber, bought the screens, bought the paint... and then the whole pile had leaned against the trailer for a year.
It had been one of the best days of her life. Sweaty and nasty and slapping at mosquitoes, laughing her ass off as Chandler had switched from imitating Bob Vila to Christopher Lowell, overwhelmed with the pleasure of being with him, of creating something with him.
There was something in the way they worked together that called to her, took her over... a rhythm they fell into, an effortless synchronization between them that was weirdly and powerfully erotic. One purpose, one mind, two parts of a whole.
The majority of the sex she'd had in her life didn't do to her insides what handing Chandler Bing a two-by-four did.
And that day... with the heat making every part of her body slide against the rest, with him ripping off his t-shirt and tossing it on the woodpile, with his sweaty locks of hair curving elegantly over his brow... she'd been lost.
She'd dropped a piece of plywood, and he'd caught it... arms coming up from either side, holding it away from her face, trapping her in the circle of his arms, her back pressed to his bare chest, the haze of him all around her, the smell of him thick in her brain.
And he'd bent his face to her neck, and inhaled deeply before gently moving the plywood away.
It was those moments that confused her, those moments when their eyes would meet over a stack of work, those moments when she'd look up from editing and catch him watching her, his face soft and dreaming. She'd been telling herself for years that there was nothing there... that it was all her, her overactive imagination seeing what it wanted to see... but her body disagreed.
Her body *really* disagreed.
The screen door banged, but Megan didn't turn around.
"I'm home," Keith said. She heard the jangle of his car keys, thrown onto their picnic table.
"How was your meeting?"
"Good. Really good. They're very interested."
Keith waited, watching the rigid triangles of Megan's shoulderblades through her dress. She inhaled, exhaled. Strings of blue smoke wrapped themselves around her.
Keith picked at a flake of paint on their doorframe. "You're not going to say anything?"
"I said everything I had to say last night."
"Look, Megan... he's a great guy, but we don't owe him the rest of our lives."
"Your life, Keith. *Your* life. I'm not the one who wants to move." She flicked ashes angrily in the general direction of the tray.
"Baby, we can't *stay* here. It's fine for Chandler... he built a career for himself in New York *before* he came here. We're not going to get anywhere living a million miles from anything... and you know it."
"My parents are here. My life is here."
"You mean *he's* here."
Megan rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I don't want to have this discussion again."
"Well, that's great," Keith muttered, dropping into a deck chair. "Let's just fight about everything else, like we always do, and pretend *he's* not what we're really arguing about."
"He's what *you're* arguing about, Keith. What has he ever done to you?"
"You mean, besides casting me as Paul Henreid for the rest of my damned life?"
"You're not Paul Henreid."
"I'm not stupid, either."
Violence caught at her heart for a moment... a blind, red urge to rip her ring off and whip it at his forehead. She took a deep breath.
"Screw it," Keith muttered, pushing his chair back and slamming through the back door.
Megan relaxed a little, sighing deeply. Keith didn't know... couldn't realize... and of course, she'd never tell him... that he owed his marriage to Chandler Bing in more ways than he imagined. Not just because Chandler had thrown them together... or because Chandler had depressed her to the point of some seriously flawed matrimonial decision making.
Being around Chandler put enough romance into Megan's life that she could stand being married to Keith.
And that was the horrible truth.
***
Chandler ducked into the Geller's guest bathroom, fumbling for his cellphone in his suit pocket. Monica had finally remembered his wee-hours phone call.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Keith... it's Chandler."
"Hey, man."
"Monica said I got a call from you guys this morning. Everything okay down there?"
"I didn't call... it must have been Megan."
"Yeah, that's what Monica thought... she said she sounded kinda upset?"
"Ohhhh, okay. Yeah, she *was* kinda upset this morning."
"Anything I can do to help?"
"Not really, man... but thanks. She's just a little bummed out because we're moving to California."
Chandler's knees gave out, and he sat down on the toilet lid with a heavy thump. "You're... you're what?"
"I got this awesome job offer, man. Don't worry, I'll still be able to do your stuff, no problem."
"W-when are you leaving?"
"Right away. ASAP, man."
"Can I speak to Megan?"
"She's not here... she went out for bubblewrap."
"Ah, okay, well... tell her I said hi. I'm sort of in a bathroom at a wake, so I gotta go."
"Okay, Chandler... take care."
Dial tone. Chandler slammed the cellphone into the tile, feeling a deep and violent pleasure as it crunched beneath his dress shoe.
"Chandler, are you okay in there?"
"Fine, Rach, just... dropped my cellphone."
"Well hurry up, okay? Pregnant people out here havin' to pee."
Right. Chandler shoved the broken plastic into his pants pocket and held the door open for Rachel, forcing a smile across his face. "All yours."
"Are you okay?" Rachel asked, but Chandler shut the bathroom door against her look of sympathy.
California. *Cali-friggin-fornia*.
First Joey, and now Megan? What was that state, some sort of happiness vacuum?
He was suddenly slammed against the wall, the plastic shards in his pocket digging painfully into his hip.
"Sorry... sorry..." Monica cried frantically.
"Mon?"
"Chandler... get me out of here. Get me out of here, *please*.
I'm going crazy, and my mom... my mom is making it so much worse... you are about to watch me sob into pate, I swear to God..."
"Do you want me to get everybody else?"
"They won't fit in the Porsche. Please. You drive. I couldn't drive right now." She pressed her keys into his palm, gazing up at him beseechingly.
"You have your coat?"
"Got mine, got yours, got everything... let's go."
***
"You can smoke, if you want to," Monica said softly as Chandler pulled up the parking brake.
Chandler's eyebrows shot skyward. "In the *Porsche*?"
"Of course not in the Porsche," Monica laughed. "I'm traumatized, I didn't have a brain transplant. I meant we could get out of the car."
Chandler opened his door and jogged around to open Monica's. "Where is this place, anyway?"
"Ross and I used to have a treehouse here, when we were kids," Monica smiled, wrapping her arms around her and looking out at the trees. "It was the cleanest, most organized fort *ever*."
"I can imagine."
Monica shivered, and Chandler wrapped his arm around her. She nestled into the warmth of him, pressing her face against the warm wool of his coat.
"There's still a little bit of the house up there," Monica said, pointing up a tree trunk. "You wanna go up?"
Chandler eyed the decades-old platform. "Is it safe?"
"Tonight? I don't care," Monica declared, grabbing a piece of wood nailed into the tree trunk and hoisting herself up.
"Ooookay," Chandler said nervously, following her lead. He reached the end of the makeshift ladder and hauled himself onto the platform. "Ohhh -- splinter in my ass, splinter in my *ass*."
"Lots of stars," Monica sighed.
"Yeah."
Monica turned to face him, pale face floating above her black mourner's dress. "You okay? You've been really quiet."
"I just got some news."
"What news?"
"I don't want to whine, Mon. Not tonight."
"C'mon. Take my mind off it. What news?"
"Megan and Keith are moving to California."
"Oh," Monica whispered.
"Yeah. Pretty much."
"I'm sorry."
"Me, too."
"Do you... do you have any other friends down there?"
"I know people."
"That's not the same thing."
"Yeah. It's not."
Monica reached out, stroked his sleeve. "You'll always have us, you know."
"I know... and believe me, that makes it better. It's just... I'm gonna be really, really lonely."
"Me too," Monica replied.
He reached out, and she went into his arms, reaching up with her hand to touch his cheek.
"Mon, it's just..."
And her lips were on his, warm and sweet, a memory, a habit. Her fingers curled into his hair, her other hand gripping his arm like she was drowning.
Which, he supposed, she was.
He hadn't realized how lonely his body had been, how starved for warmth and human contact. He sank into the kiss, leaning back against the sagging platform, his body moving into an old, familiar dance.
"Mon..."
She stopped him with another kiss, and he shook his head, putting space in between them. He took her wrists and gently pulled her hands away from his belt buckle.
"Mon... I think tomorrow... you'd be really unhappy about this."
"I'm so... cold, Chandler. Inside."
He raised her hands and kissed them. "This wouldn't warm you up. Not where you really needed it."
"I want him back, Chandler. This isn't fair. It's not *fair*."
"You're right... it's not."
"I don't want to be alone."
"I don't want to be alone, either... but Mon, we don't *work*. We *know* that we don't work."
"People change."
"We should go back to the hotel."
"Chandler... just... tell me you'll think about it. I know I'm screwed up right now... not thinking straight... and maybe tomorrow, I'll wake up and think 'God, what was I thinking?'..."
"Flattering," Chandler coughed.
Monica laughed. "You're welcome. But all the same... tonight... I think I'd feel better."
"I will think about it," Chandler said.
"Thank you."
"Okay... so... I have even more splinters in my ass now... can we go?"
Monica smiled. "Yeah. We can go."
***
"Did you remember your toothbrush?" Monica asked, pushing the restaurant door open.
"Mon, it's not that difficult. I just put everything into the suitcase that I took out of it."
"Sorry," she mumbled, gnawing at her thumbnail.
"Look. Do you want me to stay a few extra days? It would be no big deal."
"No, no, go home, it's good. Go home. I can't camp out in the Marriott forever, I have to go back to the apartment eventually."
"Yeah," Chandler said, eyes glinting. "Just think about how... *dusty* it must be getting..."
Monica hit him lightly. "Don't do that to me!"
"Hey, guys!" Phoebe called, motioning them over to a table.
Chandler set his suitcase down and slid into the booth. "Where's Joey?"
"Dunno, he hasn't come down yet," Ross said around a mouthful of eggs. "Not like him to miss a buffet."
"Looks like you're making up for him," Monica noticed, watching Ross quickly shovel bacon onto a slice of toast.
"Gotta take off in fifteen," Ross sighed. "I have a conference upstate."
"You must be *very* excited," Mike drawled to Rachel.
"Not going, actually," Rachel replied, rubbing her stomach. "Gonna go home and incubate. I'm starting leave early, and Emma's staying with the Gellers this weekend... I've got a hot date with Calgon and Cosmopolitan."
"Don't forget the Wives' Luncheon on Thursday," Ross reminded her, gulping orange juice.
"Oh, how could I forget. And *that*, I am *very* excited about. Woo-hoo," Rachel drawled.
"Give them a chance," Ross snapped. "They'd like you if you just put forth an *effort*."
The others looked around the table nervously, finding themselves sucked into what was apparently a very old discussion.
Rachel just sighed and touched her napkin. "Sure. Okay. I'll try."
"Thank you," Ross sighed, rubbing her back for a moment before tossing his napkin onto the table. "Gotta run, guys."
He chair-hugged all around, lingering on Monica. "Love you, sis. Call me if you need me."
She patted his hand. "Thanks."
"We should actually go too, if we want to make our plane," Mike said. "Mon, you need a ride home?"
"I have the car," Monica said. "I'll walk you guys out, though."
Another flurry of hugs, and Chandler and Rachel found themselves sitting alone at a table for nine.
"So what was that?" Rachel asked curiously, biting off a bit of bacon.
"What was what?"
"Monica, all whispery in your ear when she left. Is something going on?"
"No. Kinda. I dunno."
"What about Megan?"
"She's moving to California with her *husband*, so..."
"That's interesting."
"Oh, is that what we're calling gut-wrenching pain now?"
"Joey's here," Rachel replied.
He wasn't sure if that was an answer to his question or not.
"Hey, man," Chandler said as Joey dropped his duffel bag with a thump. "Better grab a plate, the buffet's almost over."
"I'm not hungry."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm sorry I'm late. I was on the phone, with my grandma." Joey stole a piece of Rachel's bacon and pointed it at Chandler. "Can I come and stay with you for a while?"
"Of course you can, Joe -- what the hell's going on?"
"Megan's still a notary public, right?"
"Um, the answer to your bizarre question would be 'yes', why?"
"Got some divorce papers for her to stamp," Joey spat, crunching into the bacon angrily.