Clementine’s definitely seen the movie CJ’s talking about. She also definitely saw it while high off her ass and remembers absolutely nothing about it, save for the rat. Still, she waves off CJ’s concerns about spoilers, and instead focuses on his other request. “Sure,” she says of him living with her. “I assume the house’ll be big enough to have, like, wings,” she holds up a finger, as if stopping CJ before he can pipe up. “Not actual wings, CJ, like, different sections in the same house,” she explains, though she’s not sure if that’s actually an accurate description of what she means. Could be, couldn’t be. She’s never been in a house big enough to have wings, anyway, what does she fucking know?
“Anyway, it’ll be big enough for the both of us,” she pauses for a second, nose wrinkled. “Or I guess the three of us, if you’re gonna bring your husband along. His brother can’t come, though,” she warns him, annoyed at how quickly her cheeks flush at the thought of Hunter Vora anywhere near her. That motherfucker still makes her feel like a schoolgirl, and she doesn’t even like men. She’s just embarrassed he made her think she did, for a minute there.
She listens as CJ explains the syrup, then shakes her head once when he finishes. “Don’t have it, then,” she tells him. “Never heard of it. Tell you what, though, I’ll be sure to pick some up next time I’m at Walmart just for you,” she nods over at someone hailing her further down the bar. “Gimme a sec,” she tells CJ, leaving him for a minute to work on his orange list. Once everything is settled with the other patron, she comes back and takes the receipt paper CJ happily hands her, giving it a look-see. It takes her an admittedly embarrassing amount of time to realize CJ’s just added every letter of the alphabet to the beginning of the word, and she’s mostly shocked she expected anything else, really.
Giving him a look, she says, “Even if I were to count these as words — and I’m willing to, ‘cause all words are fuckin’ made up anyway — I did say thirty,” she holds up the paper to face him, taps at the word ‘zorange.’ “These are twenty-six.” She sets the paper down and shakes her head in mock disappointment, though there’s a small amused smile threatening to break through the facade. “Guess that only gets you one drink on the house, pal.”
