She stands, her foot tapping against the hardwood floor to the rythym of some pop song long since démodé.
He kicks out at her and she falls silent for a moment, but she cannot hold still for long.
Tap tap ta-ta-ta-tap tap…
He coughs out a long, beleaguered sigh. “Sarah,” he wheezes, “if you must tap your foot, use a song from this century.”
“It was from this century an hour ago,” Sarah points out, fiddling with her glasses and twiddling a ring on her finger.
“Use a song from your native century.”
“We spent enough time in 1983 that it got stuck in my head.”
“It was you who insisted.” He throws the smartphone he was fiddling with down onto the table. “Useless.”
“How else were we supposed to clean up that mess? We could barely even find it as it was, and then you had to go and read that document—“
“I can’t remember that and you know it, and I will not accept blame for something I, as of now, never did.” He’s quite firm on this.
She begins to speak. He coughs. She tries again. Cough.
She speaks louder. “Well, you never did it now, but I remember when you did, and you’re still the same you. So I do blame you, and it doesn’t matter whether or not you accept blame.”
“You are the one who’s supposed to be Lady Time. You should have known I was going to do it before I did it!”
“If I had stopped it you’d never have learned, and then who knows what could have happened?”
“I can’t remember it now, so I still won’t learn!”
“This argument taught you well enough. Had we not done this, you’d have done it again on next Tuesday.”
“Just for that, I will do it again next Tuesday!”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“…”
“What was it I did exactly?”