A message comes through. Alive how is all it says. No question mark, although it reveals a question in response. How alive can we be?
There are spatters on the lenses of her glasses. She polishes them off, in case they might be evidence of something, Alive how balancing its unquestioned statement in her brain.
Earlier, which was quite late, under tequila lamplight, lime wedged and salt wracked in a bar somewhere, she forgot something. Propriety perhaps.
How alive can we be?
She is immodest, she knows, spilling entrails without invitation. Unsolicited in character, but quiet with it. She pushes to get a reaction, like a child pushing against the legs of adults to reach the centre of the room, to stand uncomfortably in the spotlight of their surprised attention.
The tomorrow they looked at last night is here (Alive how) and she tries to forget that she made him, just as much as he failed to make her. How alive can we be when we make and unmake each other so frequently? She wants to ask him that, immodestly, hanging over him all hair and tits and naked ambition.
How alive can we be? After all that, alive how?