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A terrible fucking idea

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"This was a terrible fucking idea, sorry," Ellen said, and pushed Geoffrey away. "You can do whatever the hell you want, but don't fucking tell me about it. Didn't you learn that fucking lesson from --" she waved her hand irritably.

Darren rolled his eyes. "Elision won't save your theoretical virtue here. I was at that Dickensian institution, too."

Geoffrey wiped his hand over his face with great force and took a deep, loud breath. "If you would both kindly shut the fuck up for half a second -- we could, in fact, make this work."

"I don't think so," Darren said, half an instant before Ellen did.

She won the tug-of-war for the sheets, which she wrapped around herself as a toga. "I'm going to the fucking bar," she announced, with all the dignity of a Cleopatra clad in 400-count Egyptian cotton even if it was light green with tiny flowers. "And I am going to find someone half my age, and I will see one of you --" she looked forbiddingly at Darren "-- tomorrow for breakfast."

"Ellen," Geoffrey said, despairingly, "I married you."

Darren sniffed.

"Which is why I will see you tomorrow. For coffee." She lifted her chin and strode out of the bedroom.

"Well," Darren said, and turned to Geoffrey with a hopeful smile.

Geoffrey smacked him in the arm and said in an undertone, "Shut up. She's going to realize she doesn't have any clothes outside this room in five -- four -- three --"