Collette: It’s a prenup after the fact.
Fish: Right. Guess it’s lucky we have these three days to think about all this stuff.
33
FISH
Christmas in Maine feels quiet. Mom's house smells like pine and cinnamon, and the wood stove she refuses to replace even though I've offered to buy her a new heating system four times. The tree is small, decorated with ornaments I made as a kid, and there's snow on the ground outside, so it should feel like home. But home isn't here anymore. Home is a woman in Quebec wearing a plastic ring.
Fish: Merry Christmas, wife.
Collette: Merry Christmas, husband. Mom made poutine. I wish you were here to try it.
Fish: I wish I was there too. What are you wearing?
Collette: Justin. It's Christmas morning. My mother is in the next room.
Fish: So? What are you wearing?
Collette: Pajamas with candy canes on them.
Fish: Hot. Send me a photo.
Collette: You're impossible.
Collette: *Photo*
Fish: Now my dick is hard.
Collette: Show me.
Fish: *Photo*
Collette: I miss Big Fish
Fish: Big Fish misses you.
Collette: Not long.
Fish: I’m counting down the days.
Collette: I miss you. That’s all.
Fish: Me too. Two more days.
Fish: How many kids do you want?
Collette: I feel like you’ve asked me this before.
Fish: I have, after the kid’s day.
Collette: That’s right. OMG. Were you talking about me that day when you said I had to ask her?
Fish: Um. Yeah.
Collette: You thought about me then.
Fish: Yes. I told you I’ve been locked in for a long time. Just took you longer to catch up.