this one i can't explain
Susan stalked to the vcr and slapped the eject button.
"It's NOT art, Pavese. It's a washing machine instructional
manual. Putting it on a videotape does not make it art. I don't want to pretend it holds higher metaphors. I don't want to spend my evening making one up for it. I'm sick of this whole gen X seinfield-something-out-of-nothing post-ironic CRAP. Can't we go to a fucking play?"
The wall of words falls between them, brick by brick. He can't meet her now. Hhe doesn't know how. He's stinging nettle, even when he's still-- she brushes up to any part of him and gets hurt, whether he intends it or not. He stares at the ceiling, thinks Breathe, Pavese, just Breathe.
"Can't you fucking MOVE your mouth, even pretend we are having a Goddamn conversation?" She glares at him, 5 foot 2 inches of ball breaking fury, and he's suddenly every bad boy, every disappointing son, every bumbling incompetant man. He sighs.
This infuriates her further.
Pavese stands up as if underwater. She's yelling, he doesn't know what about. It's another language, long distance. He walks to the door, thinking I am. I breathe, therefore I am.
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