A young woman in faded blue jeans and a pink top with short, ruffled sleeves reached for a box on top of the refrigerator. Unable to successfully grasp it, she thinks for a second, and grabs a large stock pot, and uses it as a step stool. A young man walks in, his everyday defeated look on his face. His leather hat was on straight and freshly oiled, but his jacket was worn, and his hair unkempt and getting long. He looks over to the woman. “God, you're high.” His words match his appearance.
“And what do you mean by that?” Obviously insulted, the woman finally grabs the box.
“You're on pot.” Confused, the woman looks down, and realizes what he means.
“Damn it Pan, I can never tell with you.” Angrily, she slammed the box down on the polished wood table next to her. The box was a white cardboard moving box with the name “Shirley” on it.
“You keep your stuff on the ridge?” Pan gave Shirley a slight disapproving look.
“Well there wasn't much else place to put it with your junk strewn about, and I couldn't get rid of it. It's full of my childhood memories.”
“It looks pretty small, are you sure it isn't your life accomplishments.” Pan began to prepare himself a ham and cheese omelet for dinner. Shirley glared at Pan.
“You are dead Pan!”
“I may be deadpan, but you don't have any sense of humor.” Shirley buried her face in her hand. “What do you have in the box anyway?”
“Nobody likes puns you know. You and your horribly corny jokes aren't funny, they're just annoying.” Shirley rifled through the box, and pulled out some clothing with bright splotches of color scattered across the surface. “If you must know I used to work in my family's circus as a kid.” Pan continued to stair down at the skillet.
“You? Work at a circus?” Pan grew a small smirk that disappeared as soon as it began. “I may have the ultimate poker face, but I'm ten times the card you'll ever be. What, did you sell tickets.” Pan began to look over his shoulder at the box.
“Oh yeah? Well I was the clown! How do you like that Mr. Stuffy!”
“Shirley! You jest!”