When Time Ran Crooked

89 hours, 42 minutes, and 17 seconds Until

        "So what's your name?"

        "What?"

        I shot him a glance. He was sitting straight up, his palms resting peacefully on the ninety-degree corners that were his knees. Honestly, if he sat any more perfectly, I was going to punch him in his stupid straight stomach. I scolded him, "You should really say pardon. It's more polite."

        He snorted. "You can talk."

        "I can also cut off your balls."

        "You really shouldn't do that," he replied. "It's not polite."

        I rolled my eyes. "Look, I'm just asking your name. I thought if we're going to be driving to New York together for twelve hours and you are going to buy me cookies, I should probably know your name. I mean, you kind of need to know the name of your nemesis."

        "I'm your nemesis?"

        "Dude," I groaned. "You're killing me. What. Is. Your. Name?"

        "I'm Claude."

        "Cloud?"

        He sighed, exasperatedly. "Cloud."

        I blinked. "Cloud?"

        "No . . . Clow-de."

        I smirked. "Man, your parents must have met at Woodstock while smoking mushrooms and discussing the philosophy behind flower power to have named you fucking Cloud."

        "My name isn't Cloud," he repeated.

        "What, Cloud?" I asked. I took one hand off the wheel to cup my ear. "Are you crying or something, Cloud? Because I can't hear you over all this rain."

        I started laughing at my own joke as Cloud glared at me, tensing as he heard my laugh. I could barely hear him annoucing that I should "keep both hands on the wheel" over my chuckles.

        "Whatever. Don't be such a fucking Narc," I teased.

        "What if I told you I am a so-called Narc?" He questioned.

        I didn't even hesitate. "I wouldn't believe you."

        "Why?"

        "Too scrawny."

        "That's rude."

        "That's life, my friend."

        "We're not friends," he snapped. "And for that matter, that is not life."

        I giggled; Cloud was pouting. "Whatever you say, amigo."

        He rolled those big, blue eyes at me before turning towards the window. I could hear him mutter, "C'est des conneries."

        Of course he spoke French. It seemed like the sort of bullshit he would get off on.

        After a moment, I heard the murmur of his voice again.

        "WharI?" I almost shouted. "I can't hear you."

        "What happened to manners?"

        "Manners are complete bullshit," I responded. "At least when it comes to you and your French bullshit."

        "Does that mean you don't have the manners to know my name?"