He Said, She Said

I.

"I read this article," she said, "about H.L. Mencken."

"Who." he said.

"H.L." she said. "Mencken." she said. "You know. The journalist. Wrote funny stuff."

"Not really." he said.

"Anyway. It doesn't matter." she said. "The point is," she said, "is what this article said---"

"What did it say." he said.

"I'm telling you." she said. "It says about him, about Mencken, you know, H.L. Mencken, that, listen, it says that 'When he attacked'---Mencken---'when he attacked----'"

"He attacked." he said.

"You know." she said.

"Verbally." she said.

"Don't be stupid on purpose." she said.

"I'm not on purpose." he said.

"Don't attack me either like Mencken." he said.

"He didn't attack people. Just, you know, verbally." she said.

"Because he was funny." she said.

"What's your excuse." he said.

"That's not funny." she said. "Not like Mencken. He would be mean but funny." she said.

"Just let me tell you my thing." she said.

"Fine." he said.

"It said---if I can even remember it now---something like 'When Mencken attacked, he left no survivors, but when he praised, it was like Christmas morning.'* That's what it said." she said.

"Okay." he said.

"So." he said.

"That's like you." she said.

II.

"How am I supposed to respond to that." he said.

"I'm just telling you something I thought of." she said.

"Why would you say something like that." he said.

"Look." she said.

"Don't get upset." she said.

"It just struck me." she said.

"How am I supposed to take that." he said.

"Look." she said. "It just reminds me of how you---like, how you make people feel sometimes."

"Are you wanting to tell me something." he said.

"Is this your way of wanting to tell me something." he said.

"I didn't think I was telling you anything." she said.

"Nothing you didn't know." she said.

"Well, I didn't know you felt that way." he said. "And it was rotten of you to bring H.M. Mencken into it. To use some funny guy to tell me."

"H.L." she said.

"What." he said.

"H.L., not H.M." she said.

"As if that mattered." he said.

"As if that were any kind of the point." he said.

"What does that even mean." she said.

"Don't change the subject." he said.

"I'm trying to understand the subject." she said.

"No." he said.

"Look---" she said.

"No." he said.

"Fine." she said.

"Fine." he said.

*

Everybody's a palm.

"I always believed in you."

(There was a beat, longer than a heartbeat, but not much longer.)

"You never believed in me."

"What? That's so not true!"

"You've never said one encouraging thing to me. You'd ask to read my stories, and you'd read them and read them, and you never said anything. Nothing. You said nothing."

"That does not mean I don't believe in you. That has, like, zero to do with whether I believe in somebody."

"Well, it made me believe you didn't believe in me. Which is the same thing."

"I can't believe this. I can't believe you."

(Another beat. Several, actually.)

"It's the same thing to me. What am I supposed to think? It feels the same."

"Well, I don't understand why you always have to read into everything all the time."

"I read into things because that's what you do. You read into stuff. Everything's just there to be read into. Like, the way you're sitting there right now is just--just--like, asking to be read into! You're telling me I'm not supposed to be reading into stuff when there's so much stuff there to read?"

"I'm not telling you to read me! Stop reading me. Don't read me -- I'm telling you to not read me."

(Beat.)

"Well, how am I supposed to not read into that?"

"Fine. How am I supposed to not read into your reading into me? Like I’m--like I’m a hand or something and you’re this palm reader, this God-almighty palm reader just--just freaking reading me all the time, like I’m so easy for you or something. Maybe I’m the back of the hand, huh? You ever think I could be the back of a hand, and you’re trying to read me, and you’re just reading me wrong?”

“You’re so not the back of the hand. Don’t be stupid. Everybody’s a palm.”

“You don’t be stupid. I don’t have to be a palm. You know what? I might be a leg. A leg with no lines and you can’t read me because you don’t even know I ‘m not a hand. You win some award, and you think that’s it. You think you get me, that you know what I think about you, because you can make shit up. You think that’s a way to get people?”

“Ya, thanks, well, now I don’t have to make anything up. I don’t have to read into anything. You’re just, you’re just spelling it all out and now I know I was right! I was always right about you.”

“F. off.”

“No, you f. off.”

“No. I’m staying right f.-ing, fucking here. I was here first.”

“Fine, a.-hole. I’ll leave, but don’t act like I can’t read into you because I know I can, because you just showed me I was right. You’re right I’m a palm reader. I’ve read you all the way down, okay, and I know you don’t think I can do it, but I’m doing it anyway.”

“Whatever. I’m just sitting here trying to watch TV, and, like, relax, and you’re all demanding -- I tried to say something nice, do you get that? I try to be supportive, and this is what happens. You have to be able to read me.”

“Well, I have to read you because you don’t just tell me!”

“I -- I don’t -- what the h-- I just told you. I told you I believed in you.”

“No you don’t.”

“Fine! I don’t! Whatever. You’re the mindreader.”

“Palmreader.”

“Shut the fuck up, please.”

“Great sentence. Great sentiment. Thanks for adding the ‘please’ or my feelings would really be hurt.”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up. I’m trying to watch TV.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

(A lot of heartbeats, pretty fast ones, but not too many.)

“Look, do you want some popcorn or something?”

“What? Do I -- what?”

“Look, I’m just gonna make some popcorn. I want to know if you want some. It’s not a hard question.”

“Are you trying to be nice now? Because you’re not doing a good job.”

“I’m doing a better job than you.”

“Yes, YES. Okay? I want POPCORN. I’ve never wanted anything so much in my whole life. I’m starving for popcorn. It’s a popcorn famine over here. Please. Thank you. Popcorn. Yes. Great. Gimme.”

“Screw you.”

(Many beats.)

Yelled into the next room, “I did too believe in you. You can’t read my mind. My mind believed in you, just because you couldn’t read it doesn’t mean it didn’t.”

“Then why -- you know what? Never. Mind. I’m making popcorn, and you’re not getting any.”

“Right. Like I wanted any.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Whatever.”

“And I did too believe in you.”

Coming in from the other room, “I can hear you, you know. I’m not dumb. Or deaf or whatever. Why didn’t you ever tell me, then?”

“Why do I have to tell you if I believe in you?”

“Because how else am I supposed to know?”

“You said you knew. You said you could read my freaking mind.”

“Well, I can’t. Hello. Obviously I can’t.”

“Well, I did.”

“Fine. You did.”

(A beat exactly as long as a heartbeat.)

“But you should tell me if you did.”

“I’m telling you I did.”

“Fine. Whatever. Fine.”

(Maybe only a single heartbeat, maybe two.)

“Thanks, I guess.”

(Beat.)

“But you should’ve told me then. You should tell me when, not after.”

“Okay, okay. Jeez. I will. I’ll tell you then.”

“You don’t have to be a palm, you know. But I don’t want you to be the back of the hand either, with no lines.”

“Well, maybe I’ll be...like, an old back of the hand with, like, wrinkles and stuff.”

“No. Wrinkles aren’t lines. You can’t read wrinkles, everyone knows  that.”

“Fine, I’ll be the front of a hand then. I’ll be the front, so you can read me.”

“No! That’s the point! I don’t want to have to read you. I want you to read yourself to me. Because I can read wrong.”

“Well, I can read wrong too.”

“I know, but -- I know. But. Please?”

“Fine. I’ll read myself to you. When I believe in you, then, then I’ll read myself to you. Okay? Alright?”

“Okay. Good.”

“Fine?”

“Fine.”

(Beat. Beat. Beat.)

“I guess I’ll have a half a bowl.”

“I already made you a whole one, with the butter and stuff.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

(More beats.)