eggs

 “I think someone egged my car,” she says.

“What?”

“Yeah. Like, there’s this shit on my back windshield. It looks nasty.”

“That’s fucked up,” he says. “It might be punks in the neighborhood or some shit. Someone ripped the front and back medallions off my old car.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. That’s why it doesn’t have medallions. Someone broke them off my car. Not long after I moved here.”

“What is wrong with people.”

They drive to a car wash. A piece of paper is taped over the instructions explaining that the lights don’t work. “Just drive forward. If you aren’t happy, bring your receipt and we’ll refund you,” it says.

“This is so fucking cool,” he says. Rubber tentacles drape across the car, get temporarily stuck in her car’s windshield wipers.

“Isn’t it? My dad used to take me to car washes when I was kid.”

“Same,” he says. “Felt like a fucking roller coaster. Still does kinda.”

The hoses wash over the car front to back.

“What about my eggs! My fucking eggs!” she shouts.

He reaches around himself and watches the hoses gently pouring over the rear windshield, the egg stains still hardened and stuck.

“Fuck,” he says.

“It’s not dealing with my fucking eggs!”

“This is fucked,” he says.

The driers run and they watch beads of water roll up and over the windshield and they drive off.

“We probably could have gotten a refund,” she says, “but I forgot to get a receipt. I was so excited to get rid of my eggs.”