By Harriet Gillian
How very dare he. Anna couldn’t believe it. Were those actual words coming out of his actual mouth? Like, right now?
“Are you mental? Like, actually mental in the head?” She was almost worried about him. Under normal circumstances she’d rush him off to hospital and explain to a nurse in white crocs that her husband, Alex, seems to have had a stroke. The nurse would tell them to get in line at reception and say; ‘someone will see you soon,’ and Anna would probably spend a good five minutes checking Alex’s face for signs of collapse, comparing photos she’d taken of him at their best friends wedding last week. She’d get him to raise his arms and when he could manage it just fine, she’d google all the other symptoms of a stroke that she’d forgotten from the TV advert, in a desperate bid to stop the damage spreading. She’d read about people their age having strokes due to the stress of being ‘millennials’ or ‘Gen Z’ers,’ or ‘X’ers?’ What even were they these days? Fucked. Apparently.
“What d’you mean?” Alex asked, genuinely.
“You said, and I quote - ‘Mean girls is far superior to Amy Heckerling’s 1995 masterpiece, Clueless.”
“Uh. Yeah.” Alex frowned. “It is.”
Anna straightened her pleated, yellow-plaid mini-skirt, pulled up her white pop-socks, flicked her long hair over her shoulder and marched into Dave and Ashley’s 90’s fancy dress party. “As if!”