At 4:47 A.M, during one of the coldest and most boring Saturdays of my entire existence, a wise woman, dressed in nothing but overpriced, silky, lingerie told me, as I yawned and rolled my eyes in desperation,that in order to have fun in Reykjavik there's only 3 things you can do: get drunk, get high or rob a bank. In the dead hours of that fateful morning the two of us, covered head to toe in trust fund baby attire, running on nothing but fumes, guilt and Ikea meatballs crossed all three of those off the list.
 

After 3 failed surgeries and countless pathetic attempts at becoming a grand Hollywood starlet it was clear to me that only a broken mirror would've been able to fix her face, which is why the getaway vehicle of my choice ended up being her neighbour's run down, beat up, sour cherry coloured mustang with velvet seats and a cheetah print steering wheel cover only a pimp could dream of.
 

"Have you ever cried in an H&M dressing room?" she asked me, then proceeded to stain the wrong end of a cigarette with her cheap raspberry coloured lipstick. A kind that would've easily been illegally imported and sold in motel hallways to German models and British secretaries if the year wasn't 2003. God, life must've been so exciting back then. Now the only other fun thing to do in this town is pack up your things and go. Not even the thought of her lingerie in the back of a Miami mob-run night club made me amused. Get with the times, I guess.
 

"No. No I haven't. Do you have anything else to add?" I was starting to feel annoyed, despite the fact that I had just flipped the keys into the ignition and was just now starting to feel the poisonous smell of gas.
 

"You're nervous."
 

"I'm not. I stopped feeling things a while ago, remember?"
 

"Sure."
 

I turned left on a street that looks and feels just like any other and has the same incomprehensible Icelandic name. it was all just whatever to me, but I could sense as she twitched in the passenger seat that that wasn't the case for her - apparently we'd just passed a house I would soon find out to be her mother's. It's funny how they never see each other despite being 15 meters apart. At least I got creative with mine. Flights to Iceland are expensive these days.
 

"Pull over at a gas station, I wanna pocket a fee Twix bars. Or maybe snickers if they don't have them. Maybe some soda as well."
 

"Yes, because leaving a trail of Twix crumbs in the bank vault for the police to track all the way to your apartment is highly intelligent. You should've finished your meatballs."
 

"If I did I would've stained my shirt even more." I could sense the passive aggressive tone in her voice as she pointed to a red, sauce stain just below her chest. "And you know this is my good shirt."
 

"If that's your good shirt I'm glad I've only ever seen you naked."
 

She tossed her cigarette out the window. As I dramatically hit the breaks before the railway track a bottle of something rolled from underneath my seat and hit my unprepared right ankle.
 

"I guess we just got a sign from The Man himself."

It took us roughly 10 minutes to finish the bottle after chugging and passing it on again and again. She couldn't care less - which became obvious when she started rolling up and lighting whatever she held in the small plastic bag from her bra - but I could barely see if the light ahead was green or red. She laughed at me all the way to the bank. We parked 1 street behind.