He blinks. Those words are unexpected, those particular words, coming from them. Maybe not so much ‘you’re clever,’ but the rest of it. That’s something he’d hear from a happy client, or from Peggy if she were being generous. Where had Wolfgang gotten that idea? An assumption, because of his accomplishments? Michael’s not sure about that. He looks at them, considering.
“I dunno,” he says with a dismissive gesture, “I dunno if it’s that. It’s not like I understand people. But—okay, take this. You said ‘vacation in a box,’ right? But I wouldn’t use that. How great is a vacation, really? People come back and they say oh, yeah, it was nice, but I’m so glad to be home because now I can really relax. You’re out there, wherever you are, and you’re with your parents and grandparents and your weird uncle and his wife and two yappy dogs and no one will leave you alone. Or you get a cabin out in the woods and it’s just you and your boyfriend and it’s gonna be all romantic, but the weather is terrible all week long and your car breaks down and the service is terrible…
“So not a vacation.” He’s not paying attention to Wolfgang anymore. His mind is somewhere else; he’s talking mainly to himself, gazing into space. “It has to be something that’s always good. Always safe and beautiful. Utopia isn’t right, that’s too big… Eden is too biblical… Oh. Oasis. What about oasis? A resting place in the middle of the desert.” Without asking permission, he grabs a random scrap of paper and something that probably writes and starts making little notes.