Conversation · Working Class Woman

"Don't worry, I'm going to find him and bring him back home, promise."

"Well, if he's with his friends, then he's not really missing. No need for the police to get involved." (Don't take the case.)

"But you told me your husband's all right."

"What?"

"Something bad I guess? I'm sorry, I say stupid things sometimes, I didn't mean to annoy."

"Right around the corner. He has pissed himself."

"Our hammer toting comrade was at the bottom of those stairs."

"But you said you didn't know where he was."

"And I specifically added that I didn't need to know where he was."

"Well, I found him nevertheless. I'm Dick Mullen."

"Do you smoke?"

"No, I don't."

"Alright, got it, thanks."

"Mhmh." She returns to her book.

"I know for a fact that you smoke."

"Why do you think that I smoke?" She looks up, slightly startled.

"Your hands look like they belong to a heavy smoker."

"It's not like yours look much better," she says while eyeing yours.

Take a look at your hands.

She is right -- your hands look even worse than hers, with tiny cuts and gushes covering your skin like a spiderweb. Your fingertips have become an ugly shade of brown.

These are the hands on someone who's smoked for at least twenty years, as evidenced by the discolouration of fingers. Marks on your skin may point to past quarrels.

"Just give me a cigarette please."

"I already told you -- I don't have any. Go bother someone else."

She's lying. She's god damn lying, she has smokes!

"I know you're lying, please just give me a cigarette."

"No, I'm not lying. Why should I lie?" A pause. "Please go to the Frittte kiosk."

You'd lie too, wouldn't you? You'd lie and steal and cheat! Ask her again, squeeze the truth out of her. Keep pressing. Ask, ask, ask!

"Okay, thanks, no problem." (Move on.)

She sighs.

"Just gimme your cigarettes, okay? Don't lie."

"Sorry, officer?" She stares at you in disbelief.

SHE'S LYING, LYING, LYING!

"Do you know where I could get a new pack?"

"From the kiosk? There's one near the harbour, it's a Frittte. You can look it up."

"Just one, I beg you. Just one. GIVE ME THE DAMN CIGARETTE, MA'AM!"

"I can't give you what I don't have." She turns away from you, focusing on the books again.

The lieutenant sighs.

"It's the kind of place where everyone does."

"You're right, we do smoke worse than chimneys here."

"That cough you had. It's a smoker's cough."

Her eyes shimmer over yours. "You're a keen observer," she remarks.

"I suspect I may possess supra-natural abilities."

"No, you don't." She puts her hands into her coat pockets.

Watch her browse books.

Her hands move over the book covers. The tips of her fingers look rough, stained with yellow. It seems like she has spent a lot of time at work, smoking.

Another comrade! Years of labour are pressing down on her shoulders. She deserves a hug -- for all the work she's done for mankind.

An array of neurons fires up with joy. Bum her a cigarette -- lest it turn to pain.

Give her a hug.

You step in and close your arms around this foreign body, wandering astray in touch. There's a small movement beneath your hands, as you shut your eyes. Then a tiny voice breaks out and asks:

"What is happening?"

She seems to be confused. Your hands are wrapped around her polyester coat. The fabric feels cold, moist from the sea nearby.

Let go.

She steps back and returns her attention to books, pretending this hug didn't happen.

Keep hugging her.

The situation is oddly intimate -- your cheek is pressed against her shoulder, her hand is trapped between your chest. Five seconds pass and their passing seems so unimaginably long. Then she coughs and says again:

"Uh... what are you doing, officer?"

Less talk, more feeling. Keep your eyes closed, soak in the closeness. See what the feeling entails.

"I had the strangest... I'm not even sure."

"You had the strangest what?" She hasn't let go of your embrace.

"I don't want to talk about it."