Sta.sh
"Oh, good morning, Simon."
Simon looked up from the bowl of cereal he was fixing himself and grinned. "Good morning, yourself. Just fixing some breakfast before we head to town—no other food here and I'm half starved."
"Good luck with that," said Holly, regarding the pile of bran flakes that sat inside the bowl. "There's no milk left."
"What?"
"There's no more milk. Ran out of it last night and I didn't have time to make it to the grocery store."
"But I already poured my cereal!" said Simon with distress.
"That's unfortunate," replied Holly. She then watched with perplexity as her temporary flat-mate set the bowl on the counter, walked over to his cot and collapsed into the sheets. "Simon, what are you doing?" she asked.
Simon threw an arm over his face, covering his eyes with the crook of his elbow. "All that trouble for nothing," he moaned. "What is this? What is my life?!"
"Simon."
"This is a cruel world." The young man rolled onto his stomach, dragging the covers with him until he was practically swaddled in the spare linens. "This is the end—pray death comes quickly," he mumbled into the pillow.
"You are by far the most melodramatic ass I have ever met," Holly informed him.
Simon was unperturbed by her observation. "Pray to the gods to intermit the plague / That needs must light on this ingratitude!" he cried out ardently.
"Stop reciting Shakespearian drivel, it's a bowl of cereal!"
"I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth," replied Simon, "forgone all custom of exercises / and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory!"
"If you quote Hamlet one more time, I will stab you through a curtain, Simon."
"The first was actually said by Marullus—Julius Caesar, Act I, Scene II to be exact."
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