Dialogue Bits

NaomiWhat color ARE your eyes?" She smiles. "They change." right, like the water of the keys...that s what gets hime that and Do you camp? I love camping. There might not be an outlet for your hairdryer I'm not attached to my hairdryer There may not be toilets. I don't mean there may not be flush toilets, or there may not be indoor toilets or there may not be a hole in the floor or a bucket to piss in Or a window to toss it out of? Guys do have that advantage You have to sit eventually nope. Squat. I'm not afraid to shit in the woods. If it's good enough for the pope... Mundy laughed. It was a new face for him. At least Naomi had never seen it. His face turned like the masks, from tragic to comic in a twinkle, and a powerful joy surged through her that scared her in its intensity. It wasn't love, not love like she'd known. Every romantic cliche poured into her brain and she searched wildly about for a trepanning tool to drill those dead clever and dead wrong ideas out of what was left of the female fluff her mother and grandmother tried to stuff into her stubborn brain. Like the pincurls her mother tortured onto her head. Dozens and dozens of metallic pin curls, every night, in that professional sink she had for grown-ups that made her 3-year-old neck scream in pain as her mother chirped: You must suffer to be beautiful (dedication like Barbara Kingsolvers: thanks to mommy who was not like this raging maniac) she sand songs whilst torturing me at least. Lemmings I smell lemmings. She wanted me to look like Shirley Temple...Naomi decided to tell him the story to try to make him laugh again. Once he stopped laughing it was as if he retreated even further into some deep dark tunnel in his head only a nuclear blast or a cry of alarm from one of his stupid cats could bring him out of. Like the effort of coming out long enough to listen to another human being was so exhausting it set him back. Of course it did. But why? Being with friends made her feel better. When things were really bad it was the only thing. She had her solitary comforts: the tiny herb garden in the kitchen that never did well: there just wasn't enough sunlight in Ithaca to go around. Maybe he had SADD. They covered that last year. She was sure she had a touch of it and dipped into her trust fund to get a super-delux sun-simulating mirror when she learned, after accepting admission to Cornell rather than Duke, that Ithaca only saw 3 days of sun per winter. It was an acceptably interesting place to her; she liked the heavy stone solidity, she liked snow, reveled in finding a new little waterfall rushing down a narrow gorge along a woody paths everyhere just off the campus, which was built high above Lake Cayuga's sparkling waters. How could Mundy not see she wasn't a girly-girl like the others? That they amused but ultimately bored her? Well, the girls didn't seem to get it either. They thought she loved them as much as they loved one another, and, oddly, alarmingly, miraculously, her. She felt incapable of loving them back and felt guilty as hell. Oh, she cared deeply and would do anything to help any of her friends. Except spend time talking to them. Why blame yourself because most people can't keep up with you in a conversation? You have extra time while they catch up to figure out the meta-motives. That's it! I don't CARE about meta motives. I should not care. It's rude. It's none of my business. It's manipulative. And you call yourself a writer?