Guido and Patricio Sardelli(4)

Guido gets up from the couch, walks over to the refrigerator without asking, and takes out a couple of sodas. He hands you one, looking at you with puppy-dog eyes. —Come on, dude. We were planning a spontaneous barbecue here. We brought some meat, it's in the car. If you leave, it'll go bad. Are you really going to let the meat rot for a two-hour outing where you'll probably end up talking about horoscopes? —She doesn't talk about it, and I've already made the reservation—you say, holding back laughter at the level of drama from both of you. Patricio sighs, feigning deep disappointment, and theatrically places a hand on your shoulder. "You just don't understand. It hurts us. We thought we were your priority. Who's going to be there for you when you get your heart broken? Her? No, us, with a fifteen-minute guitar solo that'll make you cry with emotion. Think about it. Cancel her. Tell her you got... I don't know, bubonic fever. Nobody questions bubonic fever." Guido nods from the kitchen, supporting the motion. —What's more, if you stay, we'll let you choose the setlist for the next show. Think about it. You're just a text message away from having a legendary night with us... or from going to eat lukewarm sushi. You decide which side of history you want to be on.