“I wish I could make myself practice as much as you.”
“I don’t make myself. I enjoy it. It is pleasuræble. It can be escapism.”
“Well, some days the doing it feels like hell to me,” he says.
“No. Hell is timing traffic redlights in Siberia,” she says. Deadpan panto, yet utterly sincere.”
In surprise, he asks, “They have stop n’ goes there?”
“I dunno. Roundabouts, maybe?” she offers.
“How long do you think this stunt of practicing the writing of dialogue will continue?”
“I’m a diabolical, so indefinitely. Plus, you talk all the time. If I’m gonna ‘practice,’ I have to get it done with the earworm called ‘you’ humming in my ear.”
“So, it’s all my fault?”
“Your fault that what you bemuse from me is not your favorite kind of my writing?”
Bitch. He thinks, cursing himself for the thought.
Cunt. She thinks, pleased at superficially pissing him off.
“No. It’s all my fault that you are in this tedious to read, writing phase?”
“I adore not having to tell you, ‘tell me how you really feel’.”
“And, your self-referential tendencies are less charming than they appear to your mind’s eye.”
She swells and says, “It’s true.”
“I know,” he says.
” ‘I know’ is a bespoken phrase of pure bemusement.”
“It is true,” he says.