"I'm good," Gabby said. Good as angelic. Smug as a bug in a sarcasm security blanket. Good to go, keep you going through the show. Not that there was anything to play. Backstage work here, the chores. But they called her "manager".
"Good," Liz said, still with the darting eyes, unable to meet the gaze that wasn't there. Gabby could see the darting in her own peripherals, of course. She didn't miss much. But there wasn't much to do about it. Only a tight knot to behold, maybe influence but not in the intended way. Would Liz have called it "creative" or "destructive" interference, Gabby wondered.
"Are you really sure you're good?" Liz asked. Why not? Let her make conversation. Let her plant and farm it, reap what she sows. Or maybe you don't reap what you sow, not when you're a maker, making things for the takers and fakers - they just take and fake and fake and take until the maker and the baker run away together, find an island and drop out of society until the nuclear war happens and we're all in it together again, for the last few hours of life.
"Well?" Liz asked.
"Yeah I'm good, what could be wrong?" Gabby said.
"You sound sarcastic," Liz said.
"I know. I'm not though. It's sound and fury."
"Ooh, Faulkner," Liz said. "Or Shakespeare."
"Yeah, they exist," Gabby said. "You sound as sarcastic as me."
"I know," Liz said. "I'm not though. Forget it Gab, it's Chinatown."
"Ooh, Polanski," Gabby said.
"I know," Liz said. "It's a psychotropic reaction."
"Psycho-whatnow?" Gabby said. It's black and white pre-paradigm shell-casings. And it must be read or it's tired clenching eye-rubbing okay-ness.
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