A summer villa in southern-central Mexico, on the patio (then roof, then inside to the kitchen, then patio again). Beautiful vines growing on the veranda’s trellis, and the weather is good: sunny with wisps of clouds floating past. Idyllic but semi-empty, meaning-wise. Y is a kind of honorable asshole, but his curmudgeonliness comes from a feeling of responsibility once engaged. X is friendly and outgoing, but his friendliness comes from being untethered to that responsibility for how one affects others.
Y: I’d be happier if it wasn’t After Hours. That flick's just aight and I saw it last year anyways.
X: Their little cinema will be worth seeing though. Can you believe they’re able to pay for all this? I wonder the rent. Will you hand me the papers?
Y: Oh, I just keep them in my pocket.
[Y pulls up wadded balls of paper.]
X: Whose turn is it?
Y: I think… you went last. I know I went last time, unless there was a time after it.
X: I think that was the last time— all you.
[...]
X: Are you going to roll it around in your hands again?
Y: That’s how I always do it.
X: Huh. A little oily, though, ah?
Y [head tilted down, eyes angled up, brows raised]: ...Do you have a problem with how I roll it?
X: Oh, no, your turn, your roll! Just curious.
[...]
X: Like, does it end up getting inhaled?
Y: What?
X: I don’t know, whatever’s on your hands. [beat. Oil... sweat.
Y: My hands are clean. You’re inhaling smoke into your lungs.
X: Oh sure, sure, clean—no issue.
Y picks flower off stem, pulling bits apart with his nails in lieu of a grinder.
X: How much we have left?
Y: Not much. I’m padding it out it out with loose Spirit.
Y: You're not gonna slobber over the whole thing, are you?
X: What, you want it to canoe?? It just evaporates you weirdo.
Y: [resigned silence]
Y: I’d be happier if it wasn’t After Hours. That flick's just aight and I saw it last year anyways.
X: Their little cinema will be worth seeing though. Can you believe they’re able to pay for all this? I wonder the rent. Will you hand me the papers?
Y: Oh, I just keep them in my pocket.
[Y pulls up wadded balls of paper.]
X: Whose turn is it?
Y: I think… you went last. I know I went last time, unless there was a time after it.
X: I think that was the last time— all you.
[...]
X: Are you going to roll it around in your hands again?
Y: That’s how I always do it.
X: Huh. A little oily, though, ah?
Y [head tilted down, eyes angled up, brows raised]: ...Do you have a problem with how I roll it?
X: Oh, no, your turn, your roll! Just curious.
[...]
X: Like, does it end up getting inhaled?
Y: What?
X: I don’t know, whatever’s on your hands. [beat. Oil... sweat.
Y: My hands are clean. You’re inhaling smoke into your lungs.
X: Oh sure, sure, clean—no issue.
Y picks flower off stem, pulling bits apart with his nails in lieu of a grinder.
X: How much we have left?
Y: Not much. I’m padding it out it out with loose Spirit.
Y: You're not gonna slobber over the whole thing, are you?
X: What, you want it to canoe?? It just evaporates you weirdo.
Y: [resigned silence]