Indeed, Zo. Such a gas is that marriage fact. It is to laugh, really! There’s nothing to see here. Nothing despondent or aggrieved, and certainly not anything protective or that needs further prying into. Observe, how brightly she giggles like a nereid immersed in tourmaline waves, down to the very strings of her coral ribs. Carry on, my wayward girlchild, for that situation is all but a joke! Or something.
“Yes,” she nods decidedly, “Strange. That’s totally the word I’d use. Strange is a great word. We’ll use that.” but we wouldn’t, because the subject matter rolled over like a light sleeper, and she moistened her suddenly dry lips, biting the cusp of her cupid’s bow as she withdrew the trusty, unanticipatedly immense silverflask of spine kindling Jameson. Always, Jameson. And just so we’re clear, she’s actually very sorry… but there seems to be a physical barrier, an emotional skein in her slender throat. This keeps all her sorries in her chest, festering. Like a mausoleum of open caskets, waiting for bodies.
She’s out of the car, putting on a song, relieved. She prefers being out as opposed to in, and she’s used to this lake by now. Wondering why the fuck she always seems to end up here, as if this is the only place to go in this town to drink and turn your music up.
“When’s the last time you screamed as loud as you could in the middle of fucking no where?” she asks, and then screams.