[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  "You know," I said, leaning back in my chair and patting my stomach with the satisfaction of a man who has just consumed his body weight in carbohydrates. "There is a scientific term for this physical state. It's called the 'Post Paratha Paralysis'. It's fatal if you try to move too quickly."

  Wanda was sitting opposite me, picking at the last few crumbs on her plate. She looked... content. The tension in her shoulders had dissolved somewhere between the second and third helping of Keema.

  "Is there a cure, Doctor?" she asked, her eyes dancing with a lightness I hadn't seen before.

  "Only one," I said solemnly. "The couch. And mindless entertainment. We need to let the digestion process happen without interference from higher brain functions."

  I stood up, groaning theatrically as my knees popped. "I'll get the dishes later. Right now, gravity is calling."

  We migrated to the living room. It was a sunken space with a L shaped sectional that I had bought specifically because it looked like a cloud.

  I flopped onto the left side. Wanda sat on the right, tucking her legs under her. She pulled the cream knitted pillow into her lap.

  "Okay," I said, grabbing the remote like a scepter. "The question is: What are we watching?"

  I looked at the invisible camera floating near the bookshelf.

  You guys know the drill, I thought. This is the defining moment of any roommate relationship. The Netflix negotiation. If we can survive this, we can survive anything.

  "I have a list," Wanda said immediately.

  "Of course you do," I grinned. "Let's hear it. Hit me with your cinematic vision."

  "The Dick Van Dyke Show," she listed, counting on her fingers. "Bewitched. I Dream of Jeannie. The Brady Bunch. Family Ties. And... Everybody Loves Raymond."

  I stared at her.

  "Wanda," I said slowly. "You just listed the entire history of American sitcoms. In chronological order."

  "They are classics," she defended, hugging the pillow tighter. "They are... funny. And the problems are always solved in twenty two minutes."

  "Okay, valid points," I conceded. "But consider the alternative. We need adrenaline to counteract the food coma. We need suspense. We need... horror."

  Wanda recoiled slightly. "Horror?"

  "Yes! Think about it. The Conjuring. Insidious. Or maybe a classic, like The Shining. Nothing says 'bonding' like watching a guy chase his family with an axe in a snowy hotel."

  "That sounds... terrible," Wanda said, wrinkling her nose. "Why would you want to be scared on purpose? Real life is scary enough."

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "It's a different kind of scary," I argued, leaning forward. "It's controlled fear. It's the thrill of the jump scare, followed by the relief that it's just a movie. Plus, it makes you appreciate your own non-haunted house."

  "My house is not haunted," she murmured, looking at the floor.

  "Exactly! See? You're already appreciating it."

  She looked up at me, her expression unyielding. "I do not want to watch axe murderers, Aryan. I want to watch Rob Petrie trip over an ottoman."

  "But Bewitched?" I pressed. "Really? Isn't that a little... on the nose? A witch living in suburbia trying to hide her powers from her mortal neighbors?"

  I looked at the audience. The irony was thick enough to cut with a knife. She wants to watch a tutorial on how to be us.

  Wanda didn't blink. "It is a comedy about a misunderstanding. And Elizabeth Montgomery has an excellent fashion sense."

  "Okay," I sighed, rubbing my face. "We are at an impasse. You want comfort. I want chaos."

  "I always want comfort," she said softly.

  That stopped me. The way she said it… broke my argument into pieces.

  "Right," I said, my voice softening. "Okay. We do the sandwich method."

  "The sandwich method?"

  "Bread, meat, bread," I explained with hand gestures. "Sitcom first. That's the bottom slice. Then, we watch one horror movie. That's the meat. Then, if we're too scared to sleep, we watch another sitcom to cleanse the palate. Top slice."

  Wanda considered this. She looked at the TV, then at me.

  "One horror movie?" she negotiated.

  "Just one. And I promise to hold your hand if the ghosts get too loud."

  She smiled. "Deal. But we start with Dick Van Dyke."

  "Fine," I grumbled good naturedly, scrolling through the streaming service. "But if I start humming the theme song, you have to shoot me."

  [Perspective: Wanda Maximoff]

  The black and white image flickered on the screen.

  Wanda settled deeper into the cushions. The familiar sound of the opening credits filled the room.

  Rob Petrie walks in. He trips over the ottoman. Or he steps around it.

  She watched intently.

  "He stepped around it this time," she noted, pointing at the screen.

  "He's learning," Aryan commented from his side of the couch. "It only took him two seasons to figure out furniture placement."

  Wanda smiled.

  She loved this show. She loved the living room. She loved the separate beds in the bedroom scenes. It was so... orderly and so proper. It was a world where mistakes were funny.

  "Look at the kitchen," she said. "It is very small. Ours is better."

  "Ours is definitely better," Aryan agreed. "We have the spice rack of the gods. Laura Petrie doesn't even have cumin."

  She glanced at him. He was watching the screen, his arm thrown over the back of the sofa.

  He is watching this for me, she realized. He wanted the scary movie. But he is watching black and white people argue about a dinner party because I asked him to.

  "You know," Aryan said, pointing at the screen where Rob and Laura were sleeping in their twin beds. "That always weirded me out. The separate beds. They're married. Don't they like each other?"

  "It was the standard for the time," Wanda recited the fact she had read once. "It was considered... decent."

  "It's sad," Aryan countered. "If I was married to Laura Petrie, I wouldn't want to sleep three feet away. I'd want to be... you know. That's the point of marriage. You get a permanent cuddle buddy."

  Wanda felt a flush of heat rise in her cheeks.

  Permanent cuddle buddy.

  The image of Aryan in a bed, her bed… flashed through her mind.

  "Perhaps," she said, her voice a little tight. "But maybe they value their personal space."

  "Personal space is for the daytime," Aryan declared. "Nighttime is for stealing the covers and cold feet."

  He looked at her and winked.

  Wanda quickly turned back to the screen, but her heart was beating faster.

  He wants closeness, she cataloged this information. He thinks separate beds are sad.

  She mentally adjusted her plans for the future.

  They watched three episodes. By the end of the third one, Wanda was laughing openly at the antics of the characters.

  "Okay," Aryan said, clapping his hands as the credits rolled. "That was delightful. Very wholesome. My blood pressure is remarkably low."

  He grabbed the remote.

  "But now... it is time for the meat."

  Wanda tensed.

  "Do not pick something with... too much blood," she requested.

  "No gore," Aryan promised. "Just... atmosphere. We're watching The Others. It's a classic. Haunted house. Nicole Kidman looking worried. You'll love it."