I need about tree-fitty. Tree-fitty? What's that? It's three dollars and fifty cents, son.

We have our own language which I often forget in the company of others. Words, phrases, a look - we have our own customs and habits, our own practical jokes. We are like our own species. It infiltrates every part of my life outside - I have to delete phrases from emails to other people that I type automatically because they would be entirely misunderstood, look like gibberish, seriously offend. I have to watch my language in public so I don't throw out the same to the wrong person, and when I do make some obscure (but obvious to us) reference I always get the same look of incomprehensible acceptance. I have picked up some of his ways of speaking and I presume he has some of mine, although I suppose it's easy enough to pick up certain things from other people and make them your own - we do adapt to imitate and therefore please our conversation partners. We have adapted into a middle ground to the point where Ann Marie laughs at us and proclaims we have our own very distinct and odd sense of humor. I don't see it that way, but we'll humor her as long as she'll marry us in the end. It makes a space ours, lets us take possession of any moment. Something we alone share and has worked its way into idiom so that it can't even be explained properly to anyone else. Maybe we have built our relationship through this joined language more than anything else - the Liebski dialect, if you will - because it encapsulates our entire shared experience together. Like the rings on a tree. I just hope no one else ever manages to count them.