When Time Ran Crooked

79 hours, 27 minutes and 32 seconds Until

"What are we going to do?" I demanded. "We have no Netflix and, worst of all, I'm trapped in this hotel with you. You. Could my life be getting any worse?"

"I always forget how nice you are," Claude mused.

I stuck my tongue out at him. "Now isn't the time for sarcasm here, Claude, unless it's my own. We're having a real crisis."

He shrugged. "You're being dramatic. As much as I want to watch Netflix, we'll just have to find another way to entertain ourselves."

"How could I possibly be entertained with in the same room?" I retorted. "I mean, without causing you physical harm . . ."

"Tou- hey." Claude started scowling. "You're not going to hurt me right?"

In response, I smiled up at him and didn't utter a word.

He grimaced.

"But seriously," I insisted, unable to enjoy more than a moment of torturing Claude (letting me know that something was legitimately wrong with me). "What are we going to do?"

"Um . . ."

I glanced around the room. It was all bathed in crimson, patches of velvet and silk and cashmere dotted by rose petals (which, I must say, exude their scent as well as any skunk can) and flickering candles. And then I remembered. Beaming, I suggested to Claude, "Can we drink the champagne and just get really drunk?"

"I don't drink," he responded.

"Even better" I exclaimed, excitedly. "More for me."

"So, really, you just want me to watch you get drunk," he concluded.

"You should be a hammer, 'cause you nailed it," I replied, pretending to hit a nail dramatically with an imaginary hammer. I could tell that Claude really appreciated all of the work I put in to thoroughly irritate him.

"That sounds-"

"Fun, I know," I answered. I started heading across the scarlet carpet of the ridiculously decorated room, reaching a small table adorned with bottles of champagne and- "CLAUDE, COME HERE."

"Are you okay?" Claude demanded. He instantly dropped his phone, which he had been playing around with trying to find some source of internet connection, and rushed to my side. "Are you hurt or-"

I turned around and grabbed his shoulders, giving him a small shake. "Claude, I knew something smelled good in here, but I didn't realize they have a fonduee station set up with both cheese and chocolate dipping sauce. Savory and sweet. Ying and yang, Love and life. Uptown Funk and Taylor Swift. Sa-"

I saw him roll his eyes. "Okay, I get it, you like fondue-"

"Like fondue?" I snapped, interrupting him. "One does not simply like fondue."

"I like fondue," he argued.

The cheese covered strawberry (don't judge me) that was currently being stuffed into my mouth almost fell out (but I would never sacrifice something so delicious, so I choked it down and it was wonderful). "You like fondue?"

"Yes."

I sighed, after choking down my cheesy strawberry. "I was worried this was going to happen."

He scowled. "What was going to happen?"

"What I meant," I started, with another flourishing sigh (you can never be too dramatic when discussing fondue). "Is that, unfortunately, you're going to need to get really drunk so we can discover the joys of fondue together."