Anita phones Dolph Storr, a man who was left behind when other authors gave their characters such silly things as ‘character’, ‘depth’ or ‘personality’.
She immediately has a go at him for answering the phone by saying her name.
I let it go. Not every wife would appreciate her husband answering the phone with another woman’s name.
It’s called Caller ID. It is not new.
Anyway, there’s been a murder over by St. Ambrose Monastery.
He gave me directions. There were too many of them and I didn’t have pen and paper.
Because you are fucking useless.
I begged a pen from an older couple. The man was wearing a cashmere overcoat. The woman wore real diamonds. The pen was engraved, and might have been real gold. He did not make me promise to bring it back. Trusting, or above such petty concerns.
Or maybe it’s because when you borrow a pen, most people expect you to give it back if you are a decent human being. Anita whines about how long the drive is bur Dolph
tells her to grow the fuck up says it’ll be ‘time’ when she arrives.
I gave the man back his pen. He accepted it graciously as if he’d never doubted its return. Good breeding.
Or just good manners. I know that’s a confusing concept, Anita, but some people have them.