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He smiles at me, and damned if his teeth aren’t the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen in a human head. We. We: it’s an offer, an invitation to believe in his nonsense. I watch Davis put his ear against his “radio” and nod with his eyes closed, and all of a sudden I think: How do I know it’s not real? Ok…

I handed them up. She slipped them in her bag, and the next week she gave them back to me (still not looking) with these beautiful green marks on the edges of every single page, Nice! and Cut? and More of this? and Careful and Heavy-handed? and Strange and Good tension and More? and More? and More …

She smiled at Danny, this ancient crone, alone and weak, nuts if she thought she could operate a battering ram on her own. She was powerless any way you sliced it, but she thought she was strong and that made it true in a way. This astounded Danny. He’d never seen it before.

She flicked the half-smoked cigarette into the pool. It floated for a second, then sank. She said, I don’t like facts.

Danny: I don’t like nouns. Or verbs. And adjectives are the worst.

Nora: No, adverbs are the worst. He said brightly. She thought hopefully.

Danny: She moaned helplessly.
…

He loved her. She had a sly, proud face and a fuzz of invisible hair over every part of her. She made the girls he’d slept with before—models or might-as-well-be models (would be, could be, wished they were, mistaken for, proud they weren’t, etc.), girls with elastic faces who ate a lot of popcorn …