Valerie is sitting outside on the hammock right now, and I am inside pouring my lifeless soul into a paper about Margaret Thatcher, and we are occasionally calling back and forth to each other through the open window over the excellent bluegrass Pandora station I have pulled up right now.
Me: "An FBI agent is coming to our apartment right now."
Valerie: "Why?"
Me: "Because [one of our friends] is getting government security clearance and he put me down as a reference. So someone just called, and there is an FBI agent heading over to interview me."
Valerie: "Should I put on pants?"
Me: "You're probably ok."
Valerie: "Want to practice?"
Me: "Being interviewed by an FBI agent?"
Valerie: "Yeah."
Me: "Ok."
Valerie: "Hi, I'm an FBI agent."
Me: "Hi, I'm Elika."
Valerie: "Is that your real name?"
Me: "Yes."
Valerie: "Are you sure?"
Me: "Yes."
Valerie: "I don't know what else he's going to ask."
Me: "Me either."
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