316. How I'd Like to Go - Leslie

• FADE IN:


• INT. CAFE EXOTICA - DAY


• ZIA sits on one of the many couches scattered around the large, but cozy cafe.


• Her pink hair is perfectly coiffed into graceful coils.


• A lock of hair spirals past the square frames of her glasses which highlight her small, oval face.


• The thin, unzipped hoodie she wears reveals a t-shirt with a print of a stylized dandelion.


• She flips idly through an old Newsweek.


• Samir sits next to her, his arm curving over the top of the couch as he sips his tea.


• He's dressed in pin-striped cargo pants, a button-up shirt, and a vest, an elegant anachronism.


• ZIA
• Awwww.


• SAMIR
• What?


• ZIA
• This lady was killed by her husband's casket on the way to his funeral.


• SAMIR
• Ok...one, this elicits an "awww" from you? And two...you're one sick little pyscho. And allow me to emphasize the word little.


• She slugs him and he smirks at her.


• ZIA
• C'mon. There's a kind of romantic irony to that.


• SAMIR
• I was going to say bitter irony, but sure, semantics.


• ZIA
• I'd love for that to be me.


• SAMIR
• Oh, you are sick. Well, as long as its me in the coffin in your little fantasy.


• ZIA
• There's just something complete about that, to have the day memorializing your husband's death be the day that you die. Mmmm, there's a satisfying finality to that.


• SAMIR
• Yes, dear.


• ZIA
• That's how I'd like to go.


• SAMIR
• Of course, dear.


• Zia narrows her eyes and glares at him, then whacks him again.


• He smiles and returns to his coffee and she drops the pseudo-anger and puts her head on his shoulder, a mass of pink against his dark vest.


• FADE TO BLACK.