“Pass me the ten, will you?" I look at the little toolbox that lies open on mine and Carrie's living room floor, feeling utterly lost, just like the ten screwdriver.
Finally finding what I was looking for, nestled in between the seven and a roll of insulating tape, I hand it over obediently, hoping it will make my friend acknowledge that I am not a robot programmed to accomplish her little tasks.
“Carrie.”
“And a screw.” She barks another instruction out.
“Carrie.”
“One of the long ones, don't give me the short ones.”
“Christ, Carrie!”
“The tiny ones are for step 3, I'm on step 2." See, this is why I prefer furniture found at the corner of some street. It’s already assembled.
“Would you listen to me!" I plead, but get ignored. To be completely honest, I knew Carrie wasn't Davi
