“Apples.”
“Water.”
“Good.”
“Girls.”
“Um. Clean?”
“Pretty.”
“Good.”
“Roses.”
“Kittens.”
“MSG.”
“What?” asks Rose, startled.
“Girls smell like MSG,” Diego repeats. “That’s the question, right? What’s the most popular response so far?”
“Just ‘good,’” says Rose. “Nine of twenty-eight couldn’t come up with anything else.”
“Right,” says Diego, “like if you asked them how Chinese food tastes. Only they’d say ‘MSG’ instead of ‘good’ because they’ve been told that’s what it is.”
“Girls smell like Chinese food.”
“No,” he shakes his head, “but it does the same thing. Bypasses your discernment, your categories, all of that. Just hits the pleasure center straight on.”
Fantine’s holding forth again, just a bit off the point. Thirty degrees off, maybe. Still horribly wrong.
When she stops to breathe Caleb leaps in to grab the tiller, steering conversation back to saner waters: the weather. Chyler sighs with relief.
“Sure,” she says later, as Fantine pouts, “but I’d rather have snow anyway–”
“Because you can’t throw rain?” Caleb asks.
She looks to him; he looks up; their eyes catch. Flash. Freeze. Chyler swears there are words in his face and crooked smile: You understand, he says. We understand each other. In charm, in understanding, this is our conspiracy.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Chyler’s voice is a little raw, a little stuffy, trembling on the edges. Some of her words burst out accidentally when she speaks, as if her throat’s still tight and she hasn’t quite got control of her diaphragm.
“You want to come over later?” Diego asks, keeping it light and easy.
“Yeah,” she says, “I’ll–I’ll get a cab.” There’s a tired giggle in her words. She’s been sobbing. Or laughing. Or both.
“You want to eat? I can put some noodles on.”
“No,” she says, “not hungry.”
She will be, Diego thinks. He picks down garlic, basil, sage and thyme.
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
“Are you okay?”
Kai and Ayane are waiting by the door, concerned. Kai pretty clearly has to go: she’s trying to not to hop from foot to foot. “Yeah!” says Jason, muffled. “Sorry, just a minute!”
“What else can you say to that?” mutters Chyler over a euchre hand.
Agnes cracks a grin, and Hector cracks up. It’s lost on Chyler.
“Like you can just go ‘No, actually,’” she says, in a Jasonesque baritone. “‘Having some difficulty. Think you could come on in and help?’”
Hector’s off his chair, and Agnes covers her eyes. Chyler barely notices. Her hand really sucks.
Tuesday, December 9, 2003
“Eighteen days,” says August firmly. “To the minute.”
“Lord, honey, a year,” drawls Willie. “Or better yet, don’t.”
“Ooh, the same thing happened with me!” exclaims Laura. “And then that Friday, Ben… um, went into a coma.”
“A fortnight!” says Jason happily. “Actually I just wanted to say ‘fortnight.’”
“I don’t know,” says Hector, “A couple days?”
“Two weeks,” says Ayane. “Four weeks. No, two weeks.”
“It’s cool,” says Diego sagely. “Seriously, babe, I don’t mind. What was the question?”
“Five days,” says Agnes.
“A month,” says Tom.
“Just ask him, Chyler,” groans Emily, “honestly, can we talk about something else?”
