“Okay, so if that's not real, whatis? What counts, to you?"He thought for a second, then said, "I don't know. Just because someone's pretty doesn't mean she's decent.Or vice versa. I'm not into appearances. I like flaws, I think they make things interesting."I wasn't sure what answer I'd expected. But this wasn't it. For a second, I just sat there, letting it sink in."You know," I said finally, "saying stuff like that would make girls even crazier for you. Now you're cuteandsomewhat more attainable. If you were appealing before, now you're off the charts.”

“I don't know. Just because someone's pretty doesn't mean she's decent. Or vice versa. I'm not into appearances. I like flaws, I think they make things interesting.”

“Okay," I said, "what's your biggest fear?"As always, he took a second to think about the answer."Clowns," he said."Clowns.""Yup."I just looked at him. "What?" he said, glancing over at me."That is not a real answer," I told him."Says who?""Says me. I meant a real fear, like of failure, of death, of regret. Like that. Something that keeps you awake nights, questioning your very existence."He thought for a second. "Clowns.”

“I don't know," I said. "Maybe you're right, and all that stuff I think I missed is overrated. Why should I even bother? What's the point really?"He thought for a moment. "Who says there has to be a point?" he asked. "Or a reason. Maybe it's just something you have to do."He moved down to start bagging while I just stood there, letting this sink in. Just something you have to do. No excuse or rationale necessary. I kind of like that.”

“And I think she works so much becasue she can be in control of it, you know?' I said. She nodded. 'It makes her feel, I don't know, safe.'I can understand that,' Delia said softly. 'Losing someone can make you feel very out of control. Totally so.' I know,' I said. 'But it's not really fair. Like, after my dad died, I wanted to be okay for her. So I was. Even when I had to fake it. But now, when I really do feel okay, she's not happy with me. Because I'm not perfect anymore.'Grieving doesn't make you imperfect,' Delia said quietly, as Bert came back out to the van, adjusting one of the carts inside. 'It makes you human. We all deal with things differently.”

“So you're always honest," I said."Aren't you?""No," I told him. "I'm not.""Well, that's good to know, I guess.""I'm not saying I'm a liar," I told him. He raised his eyebrows. "That's not how I meant it, anyways.""How'd you mean it, then?""I just...I don't always say what I feel.""Why not?""Because the truth sometimes hurts," I said."Yeah," he said. "So do lies, though.”

“Well," I said finally, knowing he was waiting, "you make me laugh."He nodded. "And?""You're pretty good-looking.""Pretty good-looking? I called you beautiful.""You want to be beautiful?" I asked him."Are you saying I'm not?”