Marisol: Pilar. Pilar. Pilar. Guess what just landed on my desk.
Pilar: Your personality? Finally?
Marisol: Ha. Ha. The trackerball ring. Three of them. Trapped in one * plastic box like fish in a net.
Pilar: You bought three. Of the same thing. Classic Marisol disaster.
Marisol: Built for sharing. Unlike your face cream you guard like state secrets.
Pilar: My retinol costs more than your rent.
Marisol: Anyway. Right hand. Left hand. Ambidextrous chaos. The ball spins. The ring stays.
Pilar: Like your ex staying for breakfast.
Marisol: Rude. Accurate. But rude. Clip-on design snaps like a satisfying chip.
Pilar: You eat chips weird.
Marisol: Ergonomic. My wrist stopped screaming. My wrist was basically an opera before this.
Pilar: Your wrist sang?
Marisol: High C. Every click. Now? Smooth jazz. The ball rolls in all directions. Like my *. No direction. But smooth about it.
Pilar: Poetic. For a mouse thing.
Marisol: Optical tracking. No gunk. No scraping crud out with a toothpick at 2am.
Pilar: You've done that.
Marisol: We all have. Don't lie. Portable. Slips in my bag. Slips on my finger. Like a tiny tech wedding.
Pilar: You'd marry a gadget.
Marisol: Wouldn't you? USB receiver hides inside. Like a secret. Like your real age.
Pilar: I'm twenty-nine forever.
Marisol: Battery lasts actual years. Out*s most friendships.
Pilar: Including ours?
Marisol: Especially ours. One ring. Two ring. Three ring. No circus. Just cursor control.
Pilar: I'm borrowing one.
Marisol: Thought you said it was a disaster.
Pilar: I lied. I'm consistent that way.
Marisol: Fine. But you admit I'm right first.
Pilar: Never. Hand it over.
