I Can't Remember What I Did This Summer

A text message conversation this past Wednesday evening, roughly reconstructed:

Me: "I am in Corinth on a business trip. All the lights just went out in our hotel, and the desk manager is stuck in the elevator. I strongly suspect I'm in a horror movie. Nice knowing you."
Benma: "It could just as easily be either a quirky romantic comedy, a taut psychological thriller, or a bloody slasher. Which gives you two chances out of three for having sex, but only one to survive."
Me: "I guess I'll just put on my nightie and wander the halls calling for help in my most piteous voice, then. That'll cover all the bases."
Benma: "That really doesn't narrow it down any."
Me: "Well, all I actually have are pajama pant sets. That tips the scales toward romantic comedy."
Benma: "Yeah, good call. If you can arrange a non-black cat or a bottle of any blush wine, you'll be golden for sex/no death."
Me: "Ugh, blush wine. I think I'd prefer death. But, hey, the text messaging is a point in favor of RC too, I should think. I just hope I don't turn out to be the dependable, man-leery best friend."
Benma: "That used to be true, but Scream made slashers tech-savvy. Good news is, the man-leery best friend gets her own hunk in a subplot nine times out of ten."
Me: "On the other hand, I'm texting you, so if I'm the man-leery best friend, I think that makes you the main character."
Benma: "Which would be great, if Hugh Grant did anything for me."