The Friday word is "Rocket." Thanks, Mona.
(A car at night, driving suburban streets. A man and a woman are inside. The radio is playing "Rocket Man." The man is singing along. Badly.)
Woman: That's not right.
Woman: Those words. Those lyrics.
Woman: "Rocket man, burnin' up the trees on every lawn."
Woman: No. It's "burning up the fuse up here alone."
(Silence. The radio plays. The man is no longer singing.)
Man: What fuse?
Woman: On the rocket. The fuse on the rocket.
Man: Rockets don't have fuses.
Woman: Yes they do.
Man: Firecrackers have fuses. Dynamite has fuses. Not rockets.
Woman: Some rockets have fuses.
Man: Nope. In road runner cartoons maybe. If you're Wile E. Coyote maybe. But not real rockets.
Woman: It's not a real rocket. It's a rocket in a song.
Man (after a pause): In the song, though, it's a real rocket.
Woman (annoyed; she thought the discussion was over): What?
Man: In cartoons the rocket is a cartoon rocket. That's the reality. A cartoon reality. So it's a cartoon rocket. But the song takes place in real life. Real people. So it needs to be a real rocket. And real rockets....
Woman: ...don't have fuses. I get it.
Man: Granted, it's in the future, but the reality....
Woman: I get it.
Woman: So you're sticking with "burnin up the trees on every lawn."
Man: Yes. Yes I am.
Woman: You're so literal.
Man: I thought you liked that about me.
Woman: I used to like that about you.
(The car stops. The Man turns off the engine. The radio stops playing.)
Man: We're home.
Woman (turning to look at him): I'm leaving you.
Man: In the car? You're leaving me in the car?
(The woman turns away, gets out. The car door slams shut, with some finality.)