They exchanged text messages throughout the day, quietly excited, quietly illicit, and Emil asked if they could do something, after his shift ended. Pony said yes. He drove his car to her work, and she quietly imagined how it was for real couples, living together, sharing car rides in the morning and at night. They played make-believe that they were a normal couple, and she asked him how his day had been, and he asked her, in return.

They didn't drive very far because they couldn't decide where to go. They parked a block from his house, but couldn't go in there, his girlfriend was home.
"I've been thinking," he said. "I'm going to break up with Dien."
"How come?" she said, hiding slight uneasiness.
"I don't love her. I don't get along with her anymore. We were together in school and just stayed together after that. But I have to make the move. It's hard, living with her. I'll move into the spare room. At least my other friends are there too. Maybe it won't be so bad."
"It's a big change," she said. "I'd want to back you up, whatever you wanted to do."
"Thanks, P."
"Call me that again and I'll... something."
Emil got out of the car and made a cheerleader's body symbol for "P" at her, through the windshield.
"That's it!" she cried, and she stormed after him. He locked his car as he ran, and headed for a tram stop.

They had dinner at a city bar and she felt guilty every time their knees touched, but he was open and loud, even working in a joke that had a kissy punchline, which he had no qualms in acting out. The music there was cheesy and boring, and disliked by both. They walked the streets to locate a better bar. Emil began singing a made-up song, the minute they departed from the first joint, and he integrated all the shop names into his ramshackle pop hit. A song about honey, baby, catch you at the postal office, letters will be waitin', won't you be mine, oh you sublime, you want me at the Schnick Schnack store, up against the lino floor, feelin' in the bargain bin. It made Pony laugh until she had stitches in her sides and she was clamping her hand over his mouth to make him hush. They landed at a bar that doubled in function as a laundromat. Shots and washes were two dollars. There was one grey corduroy armchair that was empty, near a window. Emil pulled Pony down into it.
"So," said Emil. "Here we are."
"So," said Pony. "It's so."
They sat, for a moment, solely focussing on their own blushings, from their close proximity.
"You can tell me anything, you know," said Emil. "I don't think I'd ever tell another person about you, or anything you told me."
"Thanks," said Pony. "I can read between the lines. I'm embarrassing!"
"No," said Emil, gripping her waist. "Not that."
"Let's think up the best pick up lines," said Pony.
"OK," said Emil. "OK, here's one."
He looked into her eyes and held her hand.
"What's your name?"
"Pony," she said, laughing. "Is that it?"
"Wow," he exclaimed, in a phony fashion. "Pony. So tell me, how do you deal with being so average?"
Pony ceased her laughter.
"I love it," she said. "And I'm gonna use it."
"Not while I'm around," he said.
"You're not my boyfriend," she said, and regretted saying it.
"No," he said, grumpily.
"I don't think people talk about death robots enough," she said, continuing to hold his hand.
"Oh god, you're right," he said. "Death robots are going to kill us all. Death robots are in the shadows and underground. Death robots will be there, attacking, when you least expect them."
"I'm joyous you feel the same way," she said.
"Shall we go for another walk?"
"OK. You lead the way."

He sang her down the street, with interwoven lyrics of baby, honey, bakeries and retail clothing outlets.
"I thought up my best pick up line," she said, two steps behind him.
"Hit me," he crowed, sounding a lot like a drunk kid, but they hadn't touched any liquor.
She yanked him over and tried for a serious look.
"You're not just a pretty face," she said, breaking into a laugh halfway through the line.
"Oh!" he said. "Wait. Should I be offended? I'm confused."
"You're not just a pretty face," she repeated.
"I'll be offended," he said, and took a swing. "Why, you!"
They ran.
"The Alexandra gardens!" shouted Pony, taking a sharp left and veering towards enormous open iron gates. It was nearing two in the morning. Emil caught up with her in the statue garden.
"I've never been here before," she said.
"Me neither."
They ran again, around stern stone men and gryphons and ladies of peace and justice. A rock map of the sky, at the feet of Atlas, was at the far end of the statues, before the regular park resumed. They lay on the map and Emil was overcome by chattiness. Pony listened to him talk about how he didn't know what he wanted to do with his life, he just wanted to somehow have money like his parents did, and go where he wanted whenever he wanted, and see every city and change his life and personality every day.
"I like it here, in this city," said Pony.
Emil held up his pocketbook, in front of her eyes.
"Draw me a picture. Anything. I'm leaving for the other side of the country in a week. Something to take with me."
She sat cross-legged, he lay beside, while she flicked through his book and he chattered onwards.
"Do you have a pen?" she said.
He searched his pockets and cussed.
"Tell me what you were going to write," he said.
"OK," she said.
He sat up straight, taller than her.
"Emil, who I have adored, since he was fourteen and was the only one who believed me and looked after me when a party went really bad," she said.
"I'd add this," he said. "Pony, who I have adored since I was fourteen and met her, when I was so mad at my brother for treating her bad, but I couldn't do anything."
Pony avoided his stare.
"I could do with a drink," she said, and they rose and dusted themselves off, and ran in opposite directions, running into each other at a sphinx statue, leaping up and balancing on his paws, but Pony slipped backwards and Emil jumped over to prevent her from grazing any skin, and of course it ended with them clutching at one another for mutual balance, and Pony said, "If we kiss, a million things will get so goddamned complicated." And they transformed the graceless almost-complication into a strong hold, and Pony kissed Emil's t-shirt and said, "I guess now you have something to write about in your next book," and he held her fierce, and said, "It would be a lame story."