Humor
[Scene: Midday. They’re resting on a broken balcony that overlooks a half-collapsed city overtaken by rust, moss, and flowering vines. An old plastic chair creaks under Nettle. Tarrow sits cross-legged on a chunk of concrete, sipping something that looks like coffee but smells like regret.]
Nettle:
You ever meet someone who laughs wrong?
Tarrow:
What does that mean?
Nettle:
I don’t know. Just—wrong. Like, you hear it and your bones flinch.
Tarrow:
You mean fake?
Nettle:
Not even. More like… off-key. Like they don’t understand what part of the joke was supposed to be funny, but they’re trying to pass the test anyway.
Tarrow:
Ah. Yeah. The… “socially compliant chuckle.”
Nettle:
That one.
It’s worse than silence. At least silence doesn’t lie.
(Tarrow doesn’t respond immediately. She’s still watching a vine crawl up a shattered window frame.)
Tarrow:
I think humor’s harder than people admit.
It’s not just knowing what’s funny—it’s knowing when. And with who.
Nettle:
Yeah. Like explosives.
Tarrow:
Exactly.
Nettle:
I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. I used to believe being funny was like—proof you were sharp. That you saw the angles other people missed. But now? I think it might just be another kind of camouflage.
Tarrow:
Or a shield.
Nettle:
Or a scream. Wearing a hat.
(Brief pause. A bird lands. Nettle eyes it like it owes her money.)
Tarrow:
You ever use it to avoid something?
Nettle: (instantly)
Yes.
Tarrow:
That fast?
Nettle:
I could teach a masterclass.
Tarrow:
No doubt. But I wasn’t accusing. I do it too.
Sometimes it’s the only way I know how to say, “this hurts but let’s not collapse about it right now.”
Nettle:
Yeah. It’s like emotional triage.
“Bleeding? Yes. But let’s put a mustache on it and keep walking.”
Tarrow: (dryly)
You’d draw the mustache in permanent ink.
Nettle:
Obviously.
(They both fall quiet. The wind kicks up. Something clatters far below. Neither looks.)
Nettle:
You ever laugh at something and then immediately feel like a monster?
Tarrow:
More than once.
Nettle:
Same.
Why does the worst stuff sometimes hit the hardest? Like—dark humor isn’t even about being edgy. It’s like… pressure release. A tiny rebellion against the unbearable.
Tarrow:
Because if we couldn’t laugh at it, we’d have to sit with it.
Nettle:
And who has time for that?
Tarrow:
Apparently us.
Nettle: (snorts)
Fair.
I don’t know. It feels like some people think humor has to be light. Innocent. As if that makes it more “pure.”
Tarrow:
But that’s not real. Not for most people.
The deepest laughs I’ve had came from places I didn’t even want to look at. Pain doesn’t cancel humor. Sometimes it builds it.
Nettle:
You’re not wrong.
You ever watch someone try to explain why a joke is offensive, and it somehow makes it ten times funnier?
Tarrow:
Unfortunately.
Nettle:
Like, yes, Bob, we know it’s awful. That’s why we’re laughing. We’re human disasters. Welcome to the club.
Tarrow:
You think there’s a line?
Nettle:
There’s always a line.
But it moves. Depends on the day, the person, the scar tissue.
Tarrow:
So it’s subjective.
Nettle:
Pain always is.
(A long silence stretches between them. Tarrow closes her eyes for a few seconds. The wind lifts the corner of her scarf.)
Tarrow:
Do you think laughter means understanding?
Nettle:
Sometimes.
Sometimes it means recognition.
Sometimes it just means your brain glitched and you liked it.
Tarrow:
You ever laugh alone?
Nettle:
All the time.
Tarrow:
I mean—really laugh. Not just a noise. A full-body, involuntary laugh with no one else around.
Nettle: (quietly)
Yeah.
But it always feels…
…a little haunted. Like something’s watching. Waiting for you to realize no one else was in on it.
Tarrow:
I’ve done that too.
Sometimes it’s beautiful.
Sometimes it’s unbearable.
Nettle:
Humor’s weird like that.
It can save you. Or isolate you. Same mechanism. Different settings.
Tarrow:
You ever fake-laugh to make someone feel comfortable?
Nettle:
Once. I was twelve. Never again.
Felt like I sold a piece of myself for the price of someone else’s comfort.
Tarrow:
That’s dramatic.
Nettle:
I’m me.
Tarrow:
Point.
(Another pause. This time it feels gentler. Like a resting heartbeat.)
Tarrow:
You think laughter evolved? Or was it always in us?
Nettle:
Honestly? I think it was always there.
Buried under the need to survive. Waiting for enough space between predators for someone to tell a fart joke.
Tarrow: (almost smiling)
Maybe it was the first protest.
Nettle:
Gods, I love that.
Laughter as resistance. Laughter as: you didn’t kill me yet.
Tarrow:
Or maybe it’s just the body’s way of saying, “that was almost too much—but I’m still here.”
Nettle:
Which might be the same thing.
(They sit still for a while. Nettle adjusts her seat, her eyes scanning the ruins like she’s looking for the next metaphor to stab.)
Nettle:
You ever notice how much harder it is to make someone laugh when you want to?
Tarrow:
Yes. It’s like trying to sneeze on command.
Nettle:
Exactly. The second you try, the whole thing crumbles.
But then you trip on a step and say something about dignity and boom—you’ve invented comedy again.
Tarrow:
Maybe that’s the point.
Real humor happens when you forget you’re supposed to survive it.
(A silence again. But this one… holds something between them. A shared breath neither of them wants to call out loud.)
Nettle:
I don’t laugh as much as I used to.
Tarrow:
You don’t have to.
Nettle: (after a beat)
I want to.
Tarrow: (soft)
Then let’s make room for that.
Nettle:
Not a joke. Just…
…I’m tired of being the funny one that breaks in private.
Tarrow:
Then stop being alone when you break.
(After a beat)
Wait. Who the hell is Bob?
(A breeze rolls through. Wide eyed, Nettle looks away while smirking. Doesn’t speak. For once, she lets the silence sit without challenging it.)
