"It's 6:56."

There they stood, him at the door and her on the stage. She began to rub her arm up and down, up and down. He watched the familiar motion in fascination.

"Oh, heh. Guess my watch is fast." The fact that she didn't poke fun at his archaic pocket watch should have been a bad sign, but she seemed agitated so he overlooked it.

"So…" Arnold started, unsure of what to do next.

"So. Um… have a seat." Polite phrases from Helga G. Pataki sounded so weird.

He shuffled tentatively forward, glancing at the array of shabby choices in front of him. "Where exactly—"

"Anywhere, don't care." That was better. He relaxed at her impatience.

"Okay." He found an armchair halfway between the stage and door and lowered himself into it, overly conscious of how best to arrange his limbs.

"Now, I've asked you here today," Helga was shaking slightly now, breathing hard, "to s-share something with you."

Arnold folded his hands in what he hoped was a well-mannered gesture and waited.

"It's what I do Friday nights…" These words seemed to bolster her, and Helga frowned down at him proudly. She looked powerful.

He interrupted carefully, "Are you sure you don't mind messing up the superstition?"

"Don't be stupid." She snorted. "You said it yourself—we already messed it up."

"Can't argue there."

"Well… are you ready?"

"I don't think anything you do or say will kill me, Helga." Arnold felt oddly serene in the strangeness of it all. But he meant what he said—although she was a basket of bombshells, she'd never done any permanent damage, at least not yet.

She let out a breath in a long, low, hiss. "Don't say I didn't warn you. Okay… here we go."

Then she bowed her head and was still for several seconds. Air sharply filled her lungs and then her pent up words finally had a second pair of ears to witness them.

When she looked up a short time later, it was to behold her beloved Arnold, sitting stunned in his seat and grinning from ear to ear.

The sight of him made something catch in her chest, but she managed to croak out, "And if you ever tell anybody else, you're dead."

Arnold shook his head, wondering who on earth he would tell, and said admiringly, "I've always liked poetry, you know."

"I should have known… all you creative types are the same."

His elbow drifted to the armrest and he dropped his cheek into his palm. "You're one to talk."

"Touché. You're getting better at this, Hair-boy."

"What, conversing with you?"

"No…" she shook her head and put a hand on her hip. "Deep-sea spear-fishing."

He ignored her quip. "Well, I guess we finally found the right mediums… or is it media?"

"Simmons would be so proud. Look at us, being our unique special selves."

"Can you please bring comedienne-Helga out of retirement? I think I like her just as much."

She hesitated the slightest amount, almost like she was actually thinking about it. "Maybe."

"So… do I get to listen to you next time too?"

"I-I guess. Only if you want to."

"Yeah. That'd be nice. And let me unlock the door first. Or at least make a copy of the key for you."

He stood slowly. Emotionally spent, she apprehensively watched him cross the room.

"Do we have a deal?" He reached out a hand.

She considered his proffering for an instant, then reached her own towards him. Instead, she gasped as Arnold pulled her into him and enveloped her in a quiet hug.

After a moment, Helga whispered, "That poem wasn't about you."

"Sure, Helga." His voice felt nice, absorbed that way into her shoulder.

"I'm serious. It was about Harold." Her shaky hand wandered its way to his neck.

"Really. I wasn't aware Harold was blond. Or short." His fingers meandered their way into her hair. It felt better than he imagined it would—not soft or silky, but real, with edges.

"Shows how much you know."

"Careful, Patti will kick your ass." He smirked at her collar bone at this inside joke.

Helga gasped in mock horror. The movement felt wonderful. "I didn't know you knew that word. Do you talk to your grandmother with that mouth?"

"Grandma? She curses like a sailor. While she's pretending to be a sailor, at least."

"Hm. Well I guess I don't know everything about you after all."

"Your poetry hints otherwise."

They swayed a little, and Helga felt her legs bump up against the coolness of the stage paneling.

"Wanna walk me home?"

"Hey, that's my line." As he shook his head, the fabric on her shoulder crinkled.

Her voice was warm in his ear. "I wear the pants."

Arnold snapped his head up and looked at her hard. "Helga, for the last time, it's a shir—"