Write a short story about two childhood best friends wrestling with coming to terms with adulthood. It doesn't have to resolve -- it can end on a melancholy note.
I meet Franz for coffee, on Fourth Street, on Mondays. We've been doing this since we were teens, but really, we've been meeting on Mondays for much longer -- back when our meetings used to be in treehouses and backyards, and the topics were more about bugs and rocks than work and inflation. 
She sits down, late as usual, but not too late. She looks worn from a week of work, except our weeks have just begun. We exchange our familiarities, and settle into the "adult" rhythm of conversation: job is ok, house is alright, boyfriend is annoying. Watch any good shows lately? Are we really twenty-five?
"Are we?" Franz asks, like maybe if she asks again, I'll give her a better, more hopeful answer. 
"Twenty-five is young," I offer, not entirely convinced myself. "And this is the stuff we used to play pretend about, you know? Adult jobs, fancy coffee, cute boys. We used to dream of conversations like this."
We both sit awkwardly, trying not to acknowledge how wrongly placed our childhood optimism was. It's silent for longer than I can bear, but she breaks the silence first.
"I'm thinking about moving in with Eli, by the way."
I nod. More silence.
"I'm thinking about becoming eight again, by the way." 
I say it as a joke, but neither of us laughs.