“You want me to do what.”
“Write an obituary.”
“For-”
“An octopus, yes.”
“Why.”
Lyra pouts. I hate it when she does that. She knows that I hate it when she does that and yet she does it anyway. Probably to irritate me. “Come on Bonbon, you've gotta!”
“That is not an acceptable answer.”
“It totally is!”
“I wasn't even aware you had an octopus.”
And there it is. The look of ridiculous melodramatic hurt, like something out of a really bad soap opera. All of Lyra's emotions are like that, so over-exaggerated that you find yourself questioning whether or not they're even genuine. “Bonbooooooooooon, how could you forget about Octy!”
“You just made that name up off the top of your head, didn't you.”
“Bonbon, you have to!”
“No I don't, Lyra. I am not obligated to do anything for you, let alone write an obituary for a pet that you apparently have that you accidentally killed by sitting on it.”
“Octopuses are notoriously good at breaking out of cages! It's not my fault!”
“Do you really want me to list the reasons why this is ridiculous because I will totally list the reasons why this is ridiculous, Lyra, don't tempt me.”
“It's not ridiculous!”
“You have never owned a pet. Our parents - with whom, might I remind you, you still live despite being almost thirty years old - are smart enough to know that giving you the responsibility of taking care of another living creature's life is a comically terrible idea. Let alone something exotic, like an octopus. Speaking of which, I'm pretty sure that octopi aren't legal to keep as pets, so if you aren't lying about that, you're still breaking the law by owning it. Or were, I guess. There's also the fact that I do not work as a journalist, nor have I ever in the past. Any 'obituary' I could write would never be seen by anyone other than you and I and maybe mom and dad. Which is probably for the best because the only person who cares about this is you, Lyra. No one is interested in reading about how your pet octopus I doubt you even have died because you fucking sat on it.”
“Octavius was a he, Bonbon! Don't disrespect his memory by calling him an 'it'!”
“You just changed his name.”
“Octy was a nickname! Shut up!”
“Okay, look. How about this. I'll write your stupid obituary thing-”
Lyra leaps with joy and hugs me full force, which I know that she knows that I really hate. “Oh, thank you Bonbon! Thank you so, so, so, so much! I-”
“But!” The hug stops. “I'll only agree to do it if you agree to something for me.” Lyra takes a step backwards, a look of trepidation on her face.
Yeah, she knows what's coming. Sue me for enjoying this.
“I'll write your stupid obituary thing if and only if you, Lyra, get a job.”
“Pft, whatever, I can do tha-”
“A real job. Not something you made up. Again.”
“I wasn't gonna make something up!”
“And you have to keep the job.”
“What! Bonbon, that's totally not fai-”
“For at least six months.”
“What?! But then no one will know that Octofred died until, like, six months after he's already died!”
“You just changed his name again.”
“Octofred is also a nickname!”
“Are you going to get a job or not?”
Lyra gives me a look of pure hatred and rage, over-exaggerated and melodramatic as per usual. Her nostrils flare wide with frustration. “Fine, you win, you don't have to write the obituary, you heartless monster.” And, with that, she storms off.
I kind of would have preferred her to actually get a job, but I'll chalk this one up as a win.