"Oui oui, mon canard," Ellie confirmed, smiling. "Like a French girl. "
There was no time she could remember without French. Somehow this fact seemed like a thing that should advertise itself -- like the color of her hair or eyes -- even if this made no sense at all. Marijuana.
And then, out of nowhere, Dog was wearing a hat. This was frankly hilarious.
"Pondering Pink," Ellie muttered. "That would be my color. You're psychic." The words wavered under the sound of her laughter, imagined as a bright and tremulous yellow. That's how it would look if I saw sound.
"Girls are supposed to have hairy legs, too," she murmured. "That's why hair is on them to... To begin with." Society was a leash. "Society is a cage."
But this was funny, too, and Ellie was joking as much as she ever joked -- or more, because everything felt like a joke now, from the silly things she'd been saying to the way David's mind wandered in circles just like hers. Or similar. Or merely attempted.
There was a moment of silence again -- the strange kind -- as Ellie thought of something else to say, to do. She imagined she should try whatever she felt like, but that was too elusive a demand -- so instead she drew another circle, then another, wondering how many she could draw before David noticed her fingernail against his skin.
"David," she said suddenly, lifting herself up on bruised knees. The next words were half-sang in a rough but confident soprano, one that only appeared under various influences.
"...You know, you and I... We used to be strangers—" —Here Ellie eased her way between his legs, reaching casually for the joint again—" —But now we are... Just strange..."