“Whatcha thinking about?”
Nicole nudged my rib cage with her bony elbow.
“Ouch … nothing.”
“Nothing? Your face looks like you’re putting together a scrabble board.”
“From memory, yes, that is exactly what I am doing.” I said sarcastically.
“Well, you’re a liar. You should tell me what you’re really thinking about. You don’t talk enough about your past. I feel like I hardly know you.”
“That’s what everyone says … Oh, but don’t say that … what do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. How should I know, if I don’t know anything about you?”
“That doesn’t make any sense; and besides, you do know a lot about me …” I said. Her eyes screwed up as though she wanted to punch me in the face.
“Ok, ok …”
The story I told her is, approximately, as follows:
It’s 1984, the year of the rat. You are