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April 27, 2011 New pen—the crispest ever! I can't even write with it!
He came into the room while I was seated, journal in my lap, page open to Sean Connery, smoothing the tape down, over and over, lost in thought. I must have looked unhappy.
B: Are you sad mostly about Connery not being Grim?
T: No, not mostly. Not even perhaps. I'm realistic about that. Today I've been thinking about Jim and how he treated Anne. Cheating her with the business. And we can't say anything.
B: No we can't say anything.
T: If only she'd talked to you or me first.
B: I knew she'd over paid. We could see things were changing.
T: He lived his life on her back.
T (smiling): I'm going to write a murder mystery about it. Stealing someone's life that way.
B (chuckling): I thought you would. You have a tell. Whenever you're about to kill someone.
T: I do?
B: Yes, you stroke the page with your fingers—just like that [pointing], as if you're smoothing it down, pressing out wrinkles—left index, right index.
T (absently watching her fingers): Hmmm you're right I do.
I don't think I would have noticed. How do you notice something that is so ingrained it's unconsciously performed? And then later I realized I've always had this tell. It started when I was three. I would stroke my stuffed kitty which had real fur (rabbit I suppose?). I would stroke its head one finger at a time. And think, and plot, and ponder—until everything was smoothed out.
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