says who

You hurt my feelings.

What?

You hurt me.

You, or your feelings?

You're doing it again.

Doing what?

Hurting me. Sowing harm.

"Sow" what.

It's not some big joke.

I didn't say it was.

You're acting that way, talking that way.

But you hurt me.

When? How?

That time. You remember.

No, I don't.

We're not going to start arguing about arguing.

Why not? 

It's like we got into our NASA spacesuits, buckled up, listened to the countdown as we waited on the launchpad, 4-3-2-1-0 ignition liftoff, traveled a few light years, and landed on Planet Harm.

Or Planet Hurt.

Anyway, we can agree on that, pretty much.

True.

. . . and then opened the hatch, climbed down the little ladder, more wobbly than expected, and planted our feet on the hardscrabble, arid harmscape, littered by empty promises, goodwill wrappers, and used condomeants.

Condomeants?

Prophylactic measures meant to prevent punctured egos, infertile ejaculations, and scrambled eggs.

Ewww.

You stepped on the surface first.

No, you did.

Not going to argue that. It's all on the tape.

"That's one small step for a gland, and one existential leap for love."

That wasn't it.

Close enough.

That was the problem: not close enough.

We were in those spacesuits. I couldn't reach you, touch you.

I couldn't find you.

You had G.P.S.

G.P.S.?

Guaranteed Personal Symmetry.

But it didn't work on Planet Harm. Doesn't work . . .

Why would it? How could it?

By design.

The atmosphere, the gravity, the loneliness.

And then they played the meanest trick in the history of the universe. Houston pulled up the ladder, turned the ignition on, and flew away. Without us.

Left us to our own devices.

And we don't mean handheld devices.

Left us to our own vices.

And virtues, what's left of them.

Right.

They must've figured we were the best lab rats misery could buy.

What now?

What then?

What when?

What next?

Hey, Planet Harm doesn't even have Wi-Fi!

What does Wi-Fi stand for, again?