/ Inner Workings

"So what happened exactly?"

If only it was music or art that filled his head, he lamented, rather than just the rehashing of stories and conversations, because all that is missing from inner harmony surely comes down to the color and the sound. How is it, he marveled, that they haven't asked me to stop talking? That they never seem to get enough of all these details? And that is the moment, inevitably, when someone says, "How come you are so quiet? You haven't said a word all night."

He found himself at an impasse, uncertain over what they had shared with each other. He did this with relative strangers, he reminded himself. The path from inside his head to the larger world was paved with conversations lush and flowing and unending, and he constantly scolded himself for speaking so much, though he rarely, in fact, said anything aloud. Nevertheless, he often wondered if he was disorienting those around him with his conversing only to be teased for taking so long to answer the question. So that's why they stare. Oh, embarrassing.

If only he were a bit angrier in those old memories, he mused, or if only he had acted less irrationally, rather than just timidly reacting in ways that made no sense, because all that is missing from re-living a more fulfilling past surely comes down to the sound and the fury. He paired up well with the guy who never laughs but constantly remarks upon anything amusing. "That's funny," he says. "Yes, I've heard that one. It's great." He paired up well with the girl who hooked her own nightcrawlers but never got around to casting the line, far too distracted by skipping stones and salmonberries. "I love to go fishing," she says. "My father would only take my brothers."

This is what happened. I fell asleep in the wrong bed. We rearranged our clothes and voices and even adopted the other's bad habits and moods. I became very quiet and sullen and started at the least noise and even filled my head with songs and paintings. I stayed up all hours of the night and only napped when I was sure there would be no more cars driving up and down the street. But it didn't work out the way we had planned. It backfired.

She looks at him expectantly.

"Oh, sorry. If you don't stop me, I tend to rattle on and on."

"That's funny," she says, not betraying even the faintest of smiles.