CHAPTER EIGHT

ART AND COMEDY

The second Arthur opened the door, instantly his heart started thumping faster in his chest. Now that he was again face to face with Aubrey, he couldn't tame the madly fluttering butterflies in his stomach. Or the ka-boom, ka-boom, ka-boom of his rapidly beating heart. How was it, he wondered briefly, that one could feel so indescribably excited and downright terrified at the same time?

Whatever the answer, he didn't care. Finally he and Aubrey were together again! So long as he could get through the night without saying or doing anything embarrassing, tonight would surely be a lovely evening.

"Hey, Arthur." Arthur swore his legs had turned to jelly. She was sending him another one of her smiles, and it was making him weak at the knees. For a split second, he feared the rest of him would turn to jelly and the night would be over. But he realized it was just his nerves stopping by to say hi.

"Hey, Aubrey," he said, smiling back at her.

As he stared at her, he realized it didn't matter what this girl wore; she always looked pretty. Whether she was more dressed up like she'd been on Thanksgiving Day, or more casual in her flamingo-pink turtleneck, grey leggings and coal-black ballerina flats tonight, she never failed to send Arthur's heart fluttering. And while she wore no makeup, it didn't matter; still she made him want to go on staring at her like one stares at a breathtaking work of art. She needed no mascara, eyeliner or eye shadow to highlight the soft blue in her eyes, a blue that make him think of skies on warm spring days.

"How was work today?" he asked, inviting her inside.

"The same," she answered with a tired sigh. "Kids these days, they just don't care to be in class. You try to make art interesting, and it's like you're just making it more boring." In her arms she carried a wooden easel, blank canvas, palette and a bucket of brushes, paints and what he figured was a sketchbook.

"Need some help?" he offered. He wasn't sure how she could hold so much stuff without dropping something. It wasn't like she was part octopus and had eight arms.

"That's okay," she said, setting her materials on the wooden table that was Arthur's usual writing place. "Maybe I'm a failure as an art teacher, but at least I can escape to my drawings and paintings at home. There, I can just...be me."

"You're not a failure," Arthur was quick to say, taking a seat across from her. "Kids these days are just..."

"Cruel?" she said, finishing his sentence.

He nodded wordlessly. He was no stranger to that unfortunate truth.

There was a short stretch of silence.

"Can I get you anything?" he said, rising clumsily from his chair. He prayed she didn't notice too much. "Coffee, tea, water?"

"Water would be great, thanks."

"Do you like sugar cookies?" he said, already making his way into the kitchen. "I picked some up at the store yesterday. Mom ate most of them, but there's still some left if you want some."

"Okay." Arthur threw her a quick glance to see her smiling at him. The night had barely begun and already she was sending his emotions on a high-speed roller coaster. Was this woman trying to be the death of him? How was he going to make it through the night if she kept sending him such irresistibly sweet smiles? "Thanks, Arthur."

Arthur glanced down at the small plate of cookies. Staring down at them, they looked so plain and boring. He wished he had some frosting, but he wasn't much of a baker, and didn't normally experiment with desserts. It was much easier visiting the local bakery. The last time he'd tried baking, he'd not only burnt all twelve cookies, he'd caused the oven to start smoking up a storm. Needless to say, Arthur wasn't planning on doing any more baking anytime soon.

Before heading back into the living room, his eyes fell on his medications. He swallowed a large, dry lump. He hoped Aubrey wouldn't come into the kitchen. What would she think if she saw he was on seven medications? He didn't want to find out. Yes, she'd made it clear his laughing condition didn't bother her. Or the fact that he still lived with his mother at thirty-five. But if she caught sight of those pill bottles, he feared she'd want nothing more to do with him.

Chancing a look at Aubrey, he saw she was busy flipping through her sketchbook. Without a word, he opened up one of the kitchen drawers. Keeping his eyes on her, he then tucked the bottles into the drawer. He didn't know for sure she wouldn't notice the medications, but he wasn't taking his chances.

"Sorry if they're a bit stale," he said with a small frown, setting the cookies on the table. Next to this he placed the two glasses of water (he'd put some ice in Aubrey's, remembering that she'd mentioned liking ice-cold water). "Mom forgot to seal them up in a bag and—"

"Oh, that's okay," she said, helping herself to a cookie. She took a bite, swallowed and declared, "Stale or not – they're still cookies."

In that moment, it struck him how lucky he was to have met her. With Aubrey around, he felt he could make it through the long, tiring days. No doubt, he thought with growing certainty, she could chase his gloomy storm clouds away. Silence the constantly screaming voice in his head that he didn't really exist, and was merely floating through life like an unnoticed ghost.

"So have you always liked art?" Arthur asked her curiously.

"All my life," was her answer. "As soon as I was old enough to draw, I was already an aspiring artist. Even as a teenager, I couldn't get enough of it. Vincent van Gogh, Picasso, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci – all I wanted was to be like them some day. Art's like an escape for me. When life gets stressful and all I want is to hide myself, I get out my paints and easel and just paint whatever comes to mind."

Arthur could hear the passion in her voice. It reminded him of the passion he felt in his own dream of becoming a stand-up comedian.

"I'll bet you'll be like them someday," he said, quietly nibbling on a cookie. He looked out the window, trying hard to hide the fact that he was blushing. "You'll be a great artist and have paintings in museums and everyone will know your name."

"I don't know..." she said with uncertainty. "I...I'm not that good."

Arthur's gaze wandered over to the sketchbook.

"Can...can I take a look?" he asked, his lips curving up in the smallest of smiles.

Aubrey handed him the book, saying, "Sure...but they're really not that great. I know I still have a long way to go. My stuff's nothing special."

Arthur flipped open to the first page...and his eyes widened. The page was awash with colors – raspberry pinks, sunflower yellows and ruby reds. It was a butterfly, its broad wings outspread, each stroke of color soft, yet dazzling. So real-looking it was, he half expected the insect to leap off the page and fly around his head. He laid a finger upon the smooth paper, letting his finger trail lazily down the page.

"Wow," was all he could say. A hundred other words he could have used, but he was too amazed to say much else. He was no expert on art, but from what he could see, Aubrey definitely had a knack when it came to art.

The second page proved just as colorful. It was a park with rolling green hills beneath a golden sun that sprayed flecks of yellow onto the grass below. A giant cherry blossom tree stood tall and proud, each of its leaves shaded with just the right amount of pink. Even the white puffy clouds lounging about in the sky were painted – in Arthur's opinion – to perfection.

He shook his head and smiled. "You're amazing..." he whispered, flipping keenly to the next page.

"No," she argued, swallowing the last of her cookie. "I'm not amazing. None of my work's amazing. All the other artists out there painting masterpieces – they're the amazing ones."

Arthur said nothing. He was too busy staring in awe at the lovely works of art she'd created. No matter what she'd painted, each was splashed with the brightest of colors and breathed to life with the thickest of strokes. Whether she agreed with him or not, this girl had a way with colors.

A few minutes later, he closed the book shut. He slid it back over to her to see her eyes staring down at the table. Many things in life Arthur didn't understand. Now taking its place at the top of his list was how someone as talented as Aubrey could think she wasn't?

"You're good," he told her sincerely. "Really good."

She smiled in appreciation, but shrugged. "You're just saying that..."

"No," he said seriously. "I mean that. The way you blend colors together and make it all look so real, it's...it's quite amazing, really."

Aubrey opened her mouth to respond, but quickly snapped it shut. She took a sip of water, wiped her mouth with her sleeve and cast her gaze out the window. Arthur watched her silently, feeling a pang of empathy that she had such little confidence in herself. Despite telling how her amazing he thought her work was, still she couldn't break down the brick wall that kept her from seeing what he saw so plainly.

"You really don't think you're good," he uttered gently, his voice barely audible. "Do you?"

What she said made part of Arthur's heart ache.

"Cuz I'm not," she whispered.

Arthur bit his lip, fighting with himself about what to say and do. He knew what he wanted to do, but that voice in his head kept taunting him, telling him not to make a fool of himself. But he had to ignore it. He had to listen to what his heart was urging him to do, terrified though he was to do it.

But Aubrey needed a boost of confidence.

And he wasn't going to sit there and do nothing.

So he swallowed and reached out, laying his hand atop hers.

The instant their hands touched, Arthur felt his emotions racing wildly.

And it was no wonder.

This was the first time he'd ever held a woman's hand before.

A surge of warmth trickled through his fingers, a warmth he'd been all but a stranger to...until now. It wasn't exactly like the warmth he felt when curling up next to a blazing fire on a cold winter's night. Nor was it quite the same as when he'd feel the radiant warmth of the sun on a summer's day. It was a warmth that was indescribable, one that made him feel like he was in the exact right place with the exact right person at the exact right time.

How he wished he could hold onto this warmth forever. Wrap it up and tuck it away in a safe place where no one except him knew where to find it.

"You are," he said, his tone soft yet firm. He kept his gaze on hers, speaking to her not only with words, but with his deeply expressive eyes. "And don't ever let anyone else tell you otherwise, okay?"

Aubrey held his gaze. For a long moment, the two simply stared at the other, lost in the deepness of the other's eyes. The tingling warmth spreading through Arthur's hand was growing stronger by the second. It was overwhelming, yet he didn't want the sensation to stop. He could have sat there forever holding her hand, feeling her slender fingers slipping through his own so easily, so snugly, as if it were the most natural dance in the world. As if their hands belonged together.

After a minute of unbroken silence, Aubrey uttered softly, "Thanks, Arthur."

Arthur blushed. Being able to wash away her fears filled him with a sense of joy. He hated hearing such doubt in her voice. He knew all too well what it was like struggling with one's confidence.

"No need to thank me," he said, quietly taking a sip of water. "When someone's good at something, they should know."

Aubrey looked like she was about to argue when he swiftly cut her off.

"You're good, Aubrey," he said, not breaking eye contact with her. "No, you're not just good." He broke out in a widening smile as he corrected himself, saying, "You're amazing."

Instead of answering, Aubrey directed her gaze to her easel. Arthur wondered what thoughts were running through her head. Was she still battling her self-doubts of her ability of becoming an artist? Was she grabbing onto his words and holding tightly onto them in hopes of slowly building her confidence like a tower of blocks, one block at a time?

After a moment, her focus was back on Arthur. He studied her face, trying so hard to read her expression. Her brows were knitted together in a frown; it was obvious her mind was on something. All he could do was sit there and try and keep his pounding heart from leaping out of his chest.

"Um," Aubrey began, chuckling coyly. She picked up one of the brushes, twirling it between her fingers as if she'd done so a hundred times. Back and forth went her sky-blue eyes as they flickered between Arthur and her supplies. "Arthur, can I...uh...would you mind if I..." She broke off as if too shy to finish her sentence.

Arthur gave a small smile, encouraging her to ask away.

"Can I..."—she shifted slightly in her seat—"can I paint a portrait of you?"

Arthur blinked. This wasn't at all what he'd expected her to say. For half a second, he wondered if he'd heard wrong. Clearly she couldn't be interested in painting a picture of him? There was nothing interesting about Arthur Fleck! Surely she didn't mean him.

"I...you don't want to paint a portrait of me," her told her quietly. He dropped his gaze downward, figuring there must be some mistake. "You...you'd be better off painting some flowers or...or somebody else." He tucked his hands into his pockets and repeated, so softly his voice barely reached her, "You don't want to paint a portrait of me..."

"Yes, I do," she corrected. Giving Arthur a little smile, she got to work setting up her easel. She positioned it in front of her and got to work applying blobs of paint onto her palette. Arthur watched her silently, his eyes taking in a variety of shades: grassy green, sapphire blue, cranberry red, chestnut brown and buttery yellow. "It's why I brought all this stuff over tonight." Again she looked at him as the smile on her face broadened. "Cuz I want to paint a portrait of you."

The only thing Arthur could think of saying was, "But...why?" He locked eyes with Aubrey, his eyes swimming with a mixture of sadness and confusion. Sadness at knowing she couldn't possibly care to paint a portrait of him. Confusion as to why she'd even want to, when she could have painted anything or anyone else.

"Why not?" she shot back with a smile.

"S-surely you don't mean that," he said, letting out a nervous chuckle.

"Oh, I do," she said, sliding her chair in front of the easel. She got herself comfortable, picked up her brush and went on, "I'd love nothing more than to paint a portrait of you."

Arthur didn't know what to say. He simply went on staring at her, as if expecting to wake up from this crazy dream at any moment.

"Why wouldn't I want to?" she said, her voice thick with sincerity. Arthur listened for a hint of doubt in her voice, but detected none. "You're the nicest guy I've ever met, Arthur." She scowled. "So many jerks in this city. So many liars. So many bullies." She gave him a long up-and-down look as she let a smile spread across her freckled face. "I didn't think guys like you even existed anymore." She let out a small laugh. "Thought you'd all gone extinct." Her cheeks flushed pink as she whispered with a wink, "Guess I was wrong."

Arthur replayed her shocking words over in his head. He wanted nothing more than to thank her for speaking so kindly of him. But her kindness had dug deep inside him and taken up residence in his heart. First, he felt a familiar tickle in his throat. Like a wild animal, it clawed at his throat, showing him no mercy. Then came the expected laugh, followed by another, and a few more. Soon he was trapped in another uncontrollable fit of laughter, one that seemed to have taken hold of his entire body. He tried quelling the laughter, but it was futile. Once he started laughing, it felt almost impossible to stop.

"Hey," said Aubrey, rushing to his side. When he felt her hand upon his shoulder, Arthur felt the tension gradually leave him. With her other hand Aubrey rubbed his back soothingly, quietly telling him, "It's okay."

"I...I'm sorry," Arthur managed to get out. "It's just"—another laugh slipped from his lips—"no one's ever said anything so nice to me." Only in his precious dreams had anyone ever spoken so kindly to him. He looked up at her and gave her a grateful smile. "Thank you."

Aubrey said nothing. But the smile she gave him spoke volumes. It was like she understood what he was feeling, the pain that had sat in his heart all these lonely years.

Once she was seated back in her chair, Arthur asked her, "So, um...what do you want me to do?"

"Don't worry," she said assuredly. "It's not hard. All you need to do is sit there and stay as still as you can." She tilted her head sideways, staring hard at Arthur, like a sculptor standing before a giant slab of stone. "Can you tilt your head up a teeny bit?"

Arthur did as she asked. "Like this?"

She nodded. "That's perfect." She rubbed her chin, while she continued twirling her brush. "Now if I can just have you smile a little and"—she smiled in approval as Arthur gave her a subtle smile—"perfect!"

Arthur did his best to remain still, but it proved harder than it sounded. More than once he had to sneeze, or cough, or scratch a sudden, frustrating itch on the back of his neck. But Aubrey was patient, and never minded. Still he felt bad when he'd have to move. He always felt like he was disrupting her focus, but the passionate expression on her face remained in place.

As he sat there, head tilted slightly upward and small smile on his face, Arthur couldn't help stealing frequent, curious glances at the painter. Whenever she'd send her gaze back onto her canvas, he'd let his fall onto her. Just when she thought she couldn't look any prettier, he was proven wrong. Watching her sitting upright, painting away like it was the one thing she was born to do, Arthur felt bubbles of happiness popping inside him. For the hundredth time since meeting her, he wondered how he'd been so lucky to have her step into his life.

More than once their gazes met. Overcome with shyness, Arthur would force his gaze elsewhere. So badly he wanted to hide the fact that he was blushing, but there wasn't much he could do when his job was to sit there statue-like. A few times, much to his excitement, he thought he noticed her cheeks reddening. He couldn't say for certain, since he didn't go on staring long enough. But the very thought of Aubrey finding some part of him – no matter how small – even the tiniest bit attractive was enough to make him the happiest man in Gotham.

No, in the world.

While Aubrey painted away, Arthur couldn't help wondering why she wanted to paint a portrait of him at all. He was beyond flattered what she'd said about him being the nicest guy she'd ever met. But his face wasn't anything special. Why, he kept thinking, would she want to do anything with this face?

Interestingly, however, she seemed quite intrigued with his face. The way she'd study his features – everything from his sea-green eyes, to his pointed nose, to his thick brows and mop of brown hair that fell in dark waves over his forehead – made him wonder if she somehow saw him as a work of art? Even the facial scar above his lip didn't go unnoticed.

She's just focused, thought Arthur, his gaze practically glued to Aubrey. No way in a million years would she find anything attractive about me.

After what felt like hours, Aubrey set down her paintbrush.

"There," she exhaled. Immediately she began surveying her work.

"You're done?" Arthur asked.

She nodded and turned the easel around so he could see.

"What do you think?"

Arthur's eyes widened. Wanting a closer look, he walked over to the canvas and stared incredulously at what Aubrey had painted. While he didn't think he was anything nice to look at, Aubrey had, amazingly, made this portrait of him look...he wasn't quite sure how to describe it. The man on the canvas looked at peace, staring off into the distance as if thinking about a million lovely little things. The smile on his face was subtle, but seemed to say: I'm smiling because I'm happy.

Most of the time Arthur wasn't happy.

He loved being Carnival the Clown. But he didn't enjoy how often he was kicked and punched and made to feel like trash.

He loved going to his favourite comedy club: Pogos. But each time he'd leave feeling doubtful and worried that he'd never be good enough to make it as a stand-up comedian.

He loved watching his favourite show: Live! With Murray Franklin. But watching his idol left him with a gaping hole in his heart, knowing he was without a loving father in his life.

But with Aubrey, he was happy.

"I think," said Arthur, his eyes still glued to the canvas. "You have a way with colors."

"Thanks." She started putting her paints away, and told him, "Still got a ways to go, but one day at a time, right? Nothing happens overnight."

"You'll get there," Arthur said with an encouraging smile. "Just...just don't give up, okay?" He fell silent for a moment, then went on, "Don't let anyone try and tell you you won't make it as an artist...because you will."

She smiled thankfully. "Nice to have at least one person believe in me..."

Arthur's cheeks took on a reddish hue. "One person's better than no one...right?"

She nodded in agreement.

For the longest moment, the two stared at the other, letting silence do the talking. Sitting there across from her, Arthur swore he'd remind her every day of how talented she was. That she would fulfill her dream of becoming an artist. And until that day dawned, he'd shower her with constant encouragement until she was soaked from head to toe in it.

"So how about some jokes, funny man?" said Aubrey presently, getting comfy in her chair.

Arthur wanted to cry, laugh and smile all at once. Funny man. She thought he was funny! Even his own mother didn't seem to think he had much potential as a comedian. But here was Aubrey actually wanting to hear more of his jokes.

He was incredibly excited.

And absolutely terrified.

Suddenly he feared his jokes were trash. Less than amateurish. That she'd raise her brows in disappointment and shake her head in boredom.

"I...it's just..." he stammered, sliding his piece of paper in front of him. He ran his fingers through his hair nervously, unsuccessfully trying to mask his nerves. "I dunno if they're any good. I just came up with them a few days ago..."

"I bet they're hilarious," she said, sounding far more confident than Arthur felt.

"I...I dunno," he said, dropping his face into his hands. He could feel his hands shaking. Please, he thought desperately, don't start laughing. Not now...

"Don't be nervous," she said, her gentle tone already relaxing Arthur. "Think of it as you're performing at Pogos for an audience of one." She pointed to herself and grinned. "Me."

"I...I have a show next week," Arthur told her, fiddling with his fingers. "I...I've been trying to get ready. Put together some jokes and...but it's hard..."

"Really?" She broke out in a big smile. "Arthur, that's awesome!"

"Yeah, but..." he said quietly. "What if I...what if I screw up and just make a fool of myself?"

"Hey," she said, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "If it makes you nervous thinking about next week, don't think that far ahead. How about we just focus on tonight?"

Arthur nodded slowly. His eyes flickered down to her hand. How wonderful a feeling it was having her hand atop his own. Such warmth flooded through him that he wished he could freeze this moment and replay it forever.

"Okay," he said, rising to his feet. He took his sheet of paper and stepped back until he was standing beside the couch. Taking a deep breath, he imagined his living room as the comedy club he knew so well. But instead of a crowded club, he saw only Aubrey. Tonight he'd be performing for an audience of one.

"H-hello," he said, lips quivering as he attempted a smile. Instantly he started laughing, a small snort escaping him.

He tried again.

"Hello, it's good to be"—It was no use. The laughter was back with a fiery vengeance. Arthur buried his face in the crook of his arm, humiliation surging through him. How was he ever going to put on a show at Pogos if he couldn't even perform in front of Aubrey? There was no reason to be nervous – not in front of her. She thought he was funny. So then why was he laughing so painfully?

"It's okay, Arthur," she said, her soothing voice like wind in the trees. "Just take your time."

"I-I'm sorry," he said, hanging his head in embarrassment. He barely suppressed another laugh. "Maybe this isn't a good idea. I...I should just cancel the whole thing."

"Hey," she said, firmly but softly. "Don't you say that. You have just as much right to go up on that stage and perform, Arthur. So what if you have a laughing condition? That's no reason for you not to show them what you got." Arthur tilted his head, looking at her like a puzzled little boy. "You're funny, Arthur. Don't let this stop you from doing what you want to do. This is your moment. Don't take it from yourself."

Slowly, Arthur felt himself relaxing. Aubrey had a way of pushing the tension out of him.

"And," she added, her face still wreathed in a smile, "if it would make you feel less nervous, I can come to your show."

Arthur's eyes widened. It was like fourth of July fireworks were igniting in his eyes.

"Really?" The excitement on his face matched that in his voice perfectly.

"Of course," was her answer. She winked at him, saying, "No way would I pass down the chance to see Gotham's greatest comedian."

"I...I'm not Gotham's greatest comedian," he quietly argued.

"I think so," she shot back. "Not only are you funny, you're a whole lot nicer than those other jerks that get up there and call themselves comedians. Sure, they might make people laugh. But they're all just a bunch of...pigs." She scowled in disgust. "Most of the jokes they make are just ones that sexualize women. To them, we're just objects."

Arthur swallowed a large, dry lump down his throat. Thank god he'd hid his journal. He hated thinking what she'd say or do if she caught sight of the pornographic images. What if she got the wrong idea? Thought he was just as much a pig as the rest? The thought of Aubrey leaving him was unbearable. He couldn't lose her. Only around her did he feel less lonely, safer, happier, and accepted. To have their beautifully blooming friendship shrivel up and die would be a living nightmare.

"Don't worry," she said. "If you want, I can show up early to make sure I get a seat right up front."

"Yes," he said, liking this idea very much. "That would be nice." He smiled in appreciation. "Thank you."

He cast his gaze back onto his sheet of paper. He took a breath, reminding himself that he wasn't standing before a crowd of people. Sitting at his writing table was an audience of one – the greatest audience he could ever hope to perform in front of.

"I hated school as a kid," he began. For a moment, he feared another laugh attack was on the way. But when Aubrey gave him an encouraging nod, he breathed a silent sigh of relief. "My mother would always say"—here he mimicked his mother's voice—"' you should enjoy it. One day you'll have to work for a living." He paused briefly. "No I won't, Ma...I'm gonna be a comedian!"

Feeling small bursts of confidence, Arthur dove into his jokes. With Aubrey watching him, he needn't fear being booed off the stage. For right now, it was only her smile encouraging him to not hide in the shadows...but step into the light.

"What did the crazy man say to the straight jacket?" He paused, knowing the importance of waiting before firing off the punch line. Timing, as he'd learned from regular trips to Pogos, was crucial. "Loosen up a little!"

Arthur felt an enormous weight lift off his shoulders hearing Aubrey laugh. He listened closely, wondering if her laugh was forced. But the longer and harder he listened, he came to a delightful conclusion: her laughter was genuine. She genuinely thought his jokes were funny. Knowing this filled him with a confidence he'd never known before. Not once had anyone ever found him amusing, not in this way, anyway. Teenagers found it amusing how easy it was to beat him up like he was a human punching bag. The guys at Ha-Has found it amusing how he always seemed to be ticking Hoyt off and getting his butt one day closer to being fired.

And then there was Aubrey. The only person who laughed like he was the funniest guy in Gotham. To say he was overjoyed was an understatement.

He was on top of the world.

"Why did the old man like having insomnia?" Again he paused, letting Aubrey ponder the answer. He smiled, raised his hands in a dramatic fashion and exclaimed, "Because he didn't have to sleep with his wife!"

"How do you come up with all this?" asked Aubrey through her laughter.

"I...I dunno," said Arthur, smiling shyly. "I...I guess they just come to me. Sometimes they don't though. I once went a whole week without coming up with anything. But it's been better lately."

He could have gone the entire night making Aubrey laugh. And, amazingly, he wondered if she just could have sat there listening to his jokes. But after a few more rounds of hilarity, it was time to call it a night. Not that Arthur wanted to. He wanted this night to go on forever. As nice as that would have been, Aubrey was yawning and rubbing her eyes. As much as he was loving her company, it was clear she needed some shut eye.

"Thanks for...for coming by," Arthur told her sincerely. "Mom doesn't really find my stuff that funny, so it was nice having you here."

"Why wouldn't she find you funny?" asked Aubrey, sounding as surprised as she looked. "You're hilarious, Arthur."

He shrugged. "I...I dunno..."

"Well, you can have me over anytime," she said, making her way to the door. "If you ever need another audience of one, I'll be there."

Arthur's face broke out its biggest smile yet.

"So you'll be there next week at Pogos?"

"Consider me already there," she said, turning round to face Arthur.

Arthur opened his mouth, but quickly snapped it shut. Somewhere inside him he felt something bubbling up into his throat. He waited, fearing it was another laugh. Somehow he managed to suppress his laughter, but this didn't stop his nerves from wanting to explode. Standing there staring at Aubrey, he knew what he wanted to say.

The only problem was he couldn't get the words out. His mouth had gone dry as sandpaper.

"H-hey, um...Aubrey?" he stuttered.

"You're stuttering," she said, brows furrowing with concern. "What's wrong?"

"N-nothing," he lied. He buried his hands into his pockets, trying hard not to sound like a complete idiot. "I...I was wondering just if...I mean...I was just wondering if...if you..." He scowled softly, uttering under his breath, "What are you doing?"

"Hey, it's okay," she said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You can ask me anything, Arthur."

"I...I was just wondering," he said, his nerves still thrashing about like a fish out of water. It's okay, he kept thinking. Just ask her. The worst she'll say is no. "Um...you're coming to Pogos next week, and I...well..." He fell silent, unable to finish the sentence.

What Aubrey said next all but baffled Arthur. How she'd known what he was trying to ask her, he hadn't a clue. It was a mystery he felt certain he'd never solve. But somehow or another, she knew, and hearing what she said sent Arthur Fleck straight up to cloud nine.

"It's a date," she smiled.

Arthur didn't know what to say or do. All he could do was stand there with his mouth hanging open in stupefied shock.

Only after the longest minute of his life did he finally find his voice again.

"A-A date," he said in a squeaky voice. He cleared his throat and stood up straighter. "Y-yeah, that great be would...I mean...that would be great." He smiled sheepishly. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined he'd ever go on a date with anyone. He just wasn't dating material. Yet there he stood, Arthur Fleck, agreeing to a date with the woman who'd saved his life.

"So next Saturday at six?"

"Y-yeah," he said, leaning up against the door frame, trying to act cool. "Next six at Saturday. Er...next Saturday at six." He frowned in embarrassment and murmured, "Sorry."

Aubrey giggled. "You're cute when you fumble on your words."

When she left, Arthur closed the door, his eyes staring down at the wooden floor. He could hardly believe what she'd said. So impossible it seemed, too good to be true, yet it was real.

"She thinks I'm cute?" he whispered, smiling giddily to himself.

For the rest of the night he could think of nothing except next Saturday.

The Saturday he'd be going on his first date.