“You’re so obvious. Why didn’t you just roll in dog shit to make your outfit complete?”

“Why didn’t you sleep with the headrest?”I shrugged. “It was uncomfortable.” I looked at Sadie for support. “You didn’t use it, did you?”Sadie rolled her eyes. “Well, of course I did. It was obviously there for a reason.”

“One of the problems with all of this is that not all narratives are equal. Imagine, to take a silly example, that someone told you story after story extolling the virtues of eating dog shit. You've been told these stories since you were a child. You believe them. You eat dog shit hotdogs, dog shit ice cream, General Tso's dog shit. Sooner or later, if you are exposed to some other foods, you might figure out that dog shit really doesn't taste good. Or if you cling too tightly to these stories (or if your enculturation is so strong that dog shit actually does taste good to you), the diet might make you sick or kill you. To make this example a little less silly, substitute the word pesticides for dog shit. Or, for that matter, substitute Big Mac, Whopper, or Coca Cola.”

“You just were so cold with me. And the nurse’s outfit didn’t seem to make any kind of impression. Whatsoever. So I thought . . .’ I looked at the ground. ‘I thought you were only staying because you had promised me and then . . . when I asked you, you didn’t deny it.’ ‘You didn’t give me a chance to,’ he said, shaking his head at me. He took a step nearer. ‘And believe me the nurse’s outfit made an impression.’ He took another step towards me, so he was just a few centimetres away. ‘A very big impression.”

“What?” he demanded testily.Trammell raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t say anything.”“You’re thinking something, though. You’ve got that shit-eating smirk on your face.”“Why would anyone smirk while they eat shit?” Trammell asked rhetorically.”

“So we ate some smoke, so what?” “You lost most of your eyebrows.”Stunned, she pressed her fingers above her eyes. “Shit! Why didn’t you tell me?”“It’s a look.”