Selma

[INT. SELMA’S APARTMENT – NIGHT]

Dim lighting. A faint glow from the TV flickers across the room. Selma sits on the couch in her robe, a cigarette in hand, eyes puffy from crying. Bart is nearby, wrapped in a blanket, looking uncertain but curious. The air is quiet… almost too quiet.

Bart (softly, with a smirk): “Y’know… this is the first time I’ve had a sleepover with an adult who drinks more than Homer.”

Selma (chuckles, voice hoarse): “Careful, kid… flattery like that might get you an extra slice of pizza.”

Bart (grinning): “I’ll take my chances.”

Selma (sighs, then looks at him, eyes tired but warm): “Patty ran off to the Bahamas with some swimsuit model who probably thinks Nabokov is a cocktail. She left me here… with broken dreams and half a bottle of wine.”

Bart (teasing): “Guess that makes me your date tonight, huh?”

Selma (raises an eyebrow, half-amused): “Hah. You always were a little devil. Just don’t grow up to be like your father.”

Bart (mock serious): “No promises… but I might be nicer than him to women who smell like menthol and heartbreak.”

They both laugh, just a little. For the first time tonight, it doesn’t feel so heavy.