Vox Mentis

Thoreau turns to look at the figure approaching out of the heat haze. “Who?”

“The exception, could be,” says Plath, peering out from a raised hand. The figure’s arms are extended from his sides. He's wearing jeans and a T-shirt. “Nick Parsons. Looks unarmed.”

“Well, how about we shoot him?”

“On it,” says Masters. He gestures and two soldiers step onto the road.

“We know Parsons,” says Plath. “He’s indecisive. Untrained with weapons. He’s a carpenter.”

“Elise, you appear anxious,” says Thoreau. “Is there something I should know?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I thought Danny died. But he didn’t. I just made myself believe that.”

Plath says, “Who’s Danny?”

“Her lover,” says Thoreau, “of some time ago. He’s the exception?”

You nod.

Thoreau drums his fingers on the table. “This changes nothing.”

You watch the soldiers fan out. Danny begins to slow. You can see his face.

“Wait,” says Thoreau. “I’m missing something. Aren’t I?”

You have to answer. “Yes.”

“What am I missing?” He clicks his fingers at someone behind you. “You, too.” A poet, Rosenberg, a young guy with longish hair, steps onto the road, heading after the soldiers. “Elise?”

“Two things.”

“Name them. I am instructing you to name them.”

“I don’t think you’ve been in love. Not recently, anyway. I’m not sure you remember what it’s like. It compromises you. It takes over your body. Like a bareword. I think love is a bareword. That’s the first thing.” Thoreau doesn’t react. If anything, he seems baffled. “The second thing is I wouldn’t characterize Danny as indecisive and untrained with weapons.”

Plath says, “Perhaps we should move inside.”

“Yes,” Thoreau says. “Quite.” He smooths his pants and begins to rise from the table. Then he stops, because you've seized him by the tie.

“Also,” you say, “you are a jerk.”