Alive and Schticking

A night at home with Lola and Finn:

I'm about to hack up a lung, a lung which feels like it's being dipped in acid. Finn is tossing a coin and catching it in the dining room, watching me white-knuckle the counter and gasp for air like the goldfish in those asthma commercials. For the sake of expediency, I will just reproduce our conversation verbatim:

Finn: So.....when you die, how long should I wait to call the ambulance before it's ruled some sort of assisted suicide or something? Like, can I just stand here doing this and watch you gasp for air and collapse?

Lola: Please call the ambulance while I'm dying and then I'd appreciate some CPR.

Finn: I don't want to catch what you've got!

Lola: Thanks, babe. . . . Ok, If I were you, I'd help me to bed while I'm dying and then pop in a movie. Wait an hour or so. Then, go into my room, make sure I'm gone and then call EMS. Tell them I went to bed because I wasn't feeling well and you could hear me coughing. Then I stopped coughing and you yelled to see if I was ok. I didn't answer, so you came in to check on me and I was already gone.

Finn: Why do I get the impression that this is exactly what you've got planned to do to me?

Lola: I would at least try to give you CPR.

Friendship. We haz it. I maintain that he wants the bigger bedroom and the walk-in closet.

Later, another attack of the Lola-can't-breathe...

Finn: Are you alive?

Lola: I believe so. Barely.

Finn: Are you ok with being alive?

Lola: I'd rather not be.

Finn: Please don't die before the next rent check is due.

In Finn's defense, he did make me hot cider because I was laying on the couch whining about wanting some. When I get better, I'll probably even let him live.