by David Alday

Created on: July 03, 2007

"That's not appropriate," she'd say, and I'd laugh.

"Of course not," I'd reply. "Appropriate is for the plebes."

"You call them plebes," she'd say, "and you wonder why you don't have friends?" She was pretty when she was being assertive, and that's what this passed for. Playful assertiveness, with a secondary attempt at changing the pace of conversation.

"I have friends enough, Minerva."

"Miss B," she'd reply. Names are important.

I'd smile, a long slow smile. "As you wish," and a wink, "What shall we discuss, to pass the remaining time? Current events? What did you have for lunch?"

She'd laugh, then, a minor key chuckle, almost sad. "Does that count as a current event?"

"I just finished," I'd say with a shrug. "Odds are you did, too. You had chicken. Tell me, how was it?"

A moment's fear, and then a glance at the trash can. Therein sat her discarded lean cuisine box. "It was pretty good," she would say. It was a reflex. Everything was pretty good, or okay, or not all that good, really. Maybe five adjectives, all the time. "How was yours?" she'd query. Again with the formulas.

"It tasted like the front panel of Ferdinand Magellan's shorts," I'd reply.

She'd laugh, a real laugh this time, long and bright. "You have such a way with words," she'd say.

"Gift of tongues," I'd reply, and wag it at her. My tongue, that is.

~~~~

"If you've had one, you've had them all," she'd say. "They become pretty fungible." She knew adjectives, now, or felt more free to use them.

I'd laugh, because of her improved language, and because she was pretty, and because I was happy. "If I didn't know you were talking about lunch, it'd be even more apropos," I'd reply. She would look puzzled, and I'd take pity. "Current events. It didn't used to mean lunch. There used to be news and such."

"Do you have a mind for news, then?" she'd reply. Eyes off of mine, down and to the right to the newspaper, up and to the left to visual memory. "What do you think of the Debra LaFave issue?" She'd say, and then blush, realizing the mistake she'd made.

"Minerva, my dear, are you propositioning me?" I'd reply with smile #114: The charming rogue.

"Miss B," she'd reply. Names are important.

~~~~

"...a metaphor," she'd say.

"I'd hit that like she was a plate glass window and I was a rioting proletariat with a baseball bat," I'd say.

"That's certainly a... colorful metaphor," she'd say. And there were colors - they had just risen to her cheeks.

"Isn't that a simile?" Some undereducated fool would query.

"A simile is a type of metaphor,"

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