“Why are you looking at me?” I asked. “You’re not real,” I added, even though that might be rude. Who was to say? I wouldn’t find something or someone that could tell me the right way to behave in this situation.
“Of course I am,” she said. “Maybe you are the one that’s not real?” she suggested. I thought about it and decided that she could be right.
“Aright,” I said. “But no one else has ever talked to me. They haven’t even looked at me actually. Now that is strange, isn’t it?” She hummed and rubbed her chin.
“Well, you are very bright,” she said.
“Bright?” I asked. My mother always told me I am too pale. I did agree, but I was still very sure that I was not too bright to look at.
“Bright,” she simply said. She had answered my question, but hadn’t really given me an answer. Strange. “Very much so. I quite like it.” Very strange.
“Thank you,” I said, even though it seemed quite impossible for a person to be bright. “One of us still isn’t real,” I pointed out, as if that mattered. One of us wasn’t real and the other one was clearly crazy.
“I’m sure we could have fun together anyway,” she said.