Allow me to introduce you to Saturday Smith and Trixie Balloux. Saturday is slightly girlish and a little old-fashioned, prone to dreaminess and fits of longing for chivalry—against her better judgment. Trixie is more, shall we say, sexually focused, and fuck all with the emotional side of things. She’s rude, cynical, brassy, and enjoys her whiskey. Here is a transcript of one of their recent interactions. 

Saturday:

(Wistfully twirling a strand of hair) A partner. An ally. An alibi. I want someone to join forces with and conquer this life, with all the zeal and verve that can be achieved when you know someone has your back. And is also great in the sack. 

Trixie: 

(Takes a shot of whiskey) I agree with the whole thing about “great in the sack.” However, in what century were you born that you feel you can’t “conquer this life” with zeal and verve all of your own accord? Are you not a grown, confident woman with solid resources?

Saturday:

Well, yeah. Duh. I’m just saying if I don’t have to do everything alone, then that would be awesome. Why shouldn’t I hope for a partner who wants to travel with me, work at what he’s passionate about alongside me…

Trixie: 

Bitch, please. Do you not have friends? You have the best friends a person can ask for. Don’t you feel a little greedy thinking you’re due a soul mate too? God, I hate that term: soul mate. It sounds fucking fatal. 

Saturday: 

Don’t get all dramatic. Jesus. You know my feelings on the whole soul mate thing. We have many soul mates. It’s not like I actually believe there’s one perfect man out there just waiting for me to magically appear. Or vice versa. Or whatever. 

Trixie: 

No, you kind of do think that.

Saturday: 

Psh. Do not. 

Trixie: 

Do so. 

Saturday: 

Do not!

Trixie: 

(Smiles knowingly) So, if you don’t believe the whole single soul mate thing, then what exactly is this life partner person? Besides imaginary, of course. 

Saturday: 

I told you. Someone who I can travel with, work with, live with…

Trixie: 

And the difference between this person and, say, any number of your friends…?

Saturday:

(Blushes) Well, there’s that little something extra. 

Trixie: 

Yeah. It’s called an accessible penis. 

Saturday: 

Well, okay, it’s that, but it’s more than that too. It’s declaring your affiliations, it’s shouting from the rooftops, “World, this guy and me? We’re a team.” 

Trixie:

(Stares blankly)

Saturday: 

What, you have no interest in having someone on your side? In being on someone’s side? Making a commitment to them? 

Trixie:

I’ve made a lot of worthwhile commitments to a lot of wonderful people in my life who are dearest friends to this day. I don’t see the point of seeking out this supersized romantic commitment you’re talking about. 

Saturday:

So. You’re telling me you don’t want that relationship—to align yourself with someone who loves you for who you are, which would be miraculous because you are such a pain in the ass. 

Trixie: 

I’d like to align myself with lots of people. I’m aligned with lots of people already. 

Saturday: 

You know what I mean. Don’t get all semantical. 

Trixie: 

You’re asking me if I want a monogamous lifelong relationship with some imaginary dreamboat of a guy? 

Saturday: 

(Sighs heavily) More or less. If you had to paint it in your usual broad, jaded strokes. 

Trixie: 

You do know that monogamy is just the mutual capitulation of two people to their insecurities, right? To say nothing of the fact that it basically sets everyone up to be highly disappointed at best and badly hurt at worse. 

Saturday: 

I totally cannot talk to you sometimes. 

Trixie:

(Snickers) You just hate it when I’m right. 

Saturday: 

We’re not talking about monogamy. We’re talking about…

Trixie: 

Actually we’re exactly talking about monogamy. Because I’ll bet you a million bucks that when you have your little reveries about Mr. Awesome, you’re the only lady in his life, aren’t you?

Saturday: 

(Shrugs, looks away) Not necessarily. I like to think I’m more modern than that.

Trixie: 

No, you say that. But do you really, really mean it?

Saturday: 

I really, really mean it—theoretically. 

Trixie: 

HA! See: “theoretically.” 

Saturday: 

I really want to mean it. I don’t want to be that girl. 

Trixie: 

Oh, you mean the one that girl who can’t function unless her ego is being constantly reinforced by the presence of a doting man and thereby his implicit approval of her? 

Saturday: 

(Giving Trixie a dirty look) Yeah. That one. 

Trixie: 

Too late! Did you learn nothing from all that feminist theory we studied in college? To  say nothing of our general principles…

Saturday: 

I know! I know! It sucks, but I can’t help it. Sometimes I just want…you know, a boyfriend. Sometimes.

Trixie: 

(Shudders) But why? As is, your life is all your own. You answer to no one, you can go anywhere, do whatever you want, sleep with whomever you want…

Saturday: 

But don’t you think we need to eventually choose? 

Trixie: 

Why? 

Saturday: 

Because we want to. 

Trixie:

No. You want to. I’m good. 

Saturday: 

Okay. Fine. I want to. 

[Long pause]

Trixie: 

Well, that doesn’t get us fucking anywhere, now does it. 

Saturday: 

(Shrugs) I guess we’ll have to fight to the death then. 

Trixie: 

(Ties back hair) I guess so. But I’ll have you know, I’ve been practicing kung fu. 

Saturday: 

(Cracks knuckles) You don’t scare me.