"Alice. You realize if I call you that - for instance, at the top of my lungs trying to keep you from cracking someone's jaw - no one will have any idea who I'm talking to and I will appear to be a maniac. Perhaps you could wear a nametag."

"I'll know who you're talking to," he points out. "If anybody gives you shit, I'll back you up. Maybe I'll start wearing those little blue dresses."

"I'm not actually sure I could bring myself to yell 'Alice' when referring to you in the first place. It's pretty hard to scream in a crowded room at all, and the difficulty increases when what one wishes to scream will predictably seem strange to the audience. Maybe I'll just call you Alice when talking at a normal volume, like this, and I'll call you 'belligerent idiot' if I have to break up another fight."

"Works for me," he says cheerfully.

"Well," she says. "Now we know each other's names. And nicknames. See you around, Alice." She mocks a salute, and hops into her car.

He waves cheerfully to her as she drives away.