up in it. The spin, the swirl, you start swirling, too,” Jack hears himself saying. “I’m not a movie star, I’m not part of the scene. I do what I do and go home, like anybody else. Except, in L.A., you can’t escape it.”
“Caught up in . . . the artificial stuff.”
“Yes.”
“Like, Astroturf and plastic flowers and—”
Jack is determined to make his point. “No, like, plastic surgery, okay? Fake tits, surgical smiles, the culture of celebrity, martinis at the Skybar. Designer dogs.”
“Oh no, you’re one of those guys who says tits.”
“What?”
Mona is laughing, delighted. “And? Finish your thought.” Jack’s mind double clutches. And?
Coyotes cackle crazily in the distant creosote flats and Jack tries one more time, stubborn, deadpan. “I come out here to look at the desert and, I know, I know, okay, it sounds stupid, but I come out here and get in touch with myself. What’s real, what’s not. What’s important.” He can’t finish because Mona’s laughing. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry.” She can’t stop laughing, though. “I’m sorry. The coyotes.”
“No it’s not.”
“No it’s not, but—”
“You think I’m full of shit?”
“I don’t.” Mona’s tone is sweet and caring and delighted. “No. It’s. Well, maybe a little. Yes. Yes I do. But then no, not totally.”
“I am. I’m full of shit.”
She touches him. “Don’t say that. You’re not,” she says, eyes smiling, “but I bet, sometimes? You tell people what you think they want you to say, or maybe just what you think sounds like it might be true, and maybe that works with most people but not me, for a whole variety of reasons you don’t need to know, Jack.”
“That sounds like someone who’s full of shit.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
The silence is Jack’s.
“I’m sorry. Truly. It doesn’t matter. I’m just so happy. You can see that, can’t you? I don’t know why, and I don’t know why I started to laugh, something about you talking and the coyotes barking was funny, I laughed, and I couldn’t stop. I don’t know why.”
Jack’s not angry. “But you think I’m sort of full of shit.”
“No.” Mona kisses him, giggling again. “Yes. No”—her arms around him—“no I don’t. Eventually I won’t.” She fills his arms, warm, alive, and everything, and Jack is happy and won’t start worrying what she means by eventually until much later.
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