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