“And if I suffered my agony in the detail that your mind demands, those who search for meaning . . . or means of escape . . . in a checkout line would have turned their hearts away.”
“Dramatic, But my point exactly. There’s a definite audience for this . . . fluff.”
“Those who suffer.”
“Those who seek to escape their suffering.”
“Those who embrace it and expect a resurrection.”
Eartha gave an exasperated sigh. “Good idea, but it’s never been developed.”
“Obscure, I know. Simplistic. Practically beats you over the head. All too obvious. Clichéd.”
Eartha glanced at her notes. His words were the very ones she had used to describe the prose of the novel. Defensively, she spoke, “You can crown this drivel with a saint’s halo, but that doesn’t make it divine.”
“No. Any flakes of gold found in the sand, to be pure, would first be hidden and then, when found, would never be to the credit of the sand it was buried in.”
She stared at him blankly, while her mind reeled to grasp his nonsense, yet she knew exactly what he meant. “Don’t tell me I have to get down on my hands and knees to get the gold.”
He smiled. “No. It may just slip through your fingers.”
“Get out. I’ve had enough of this.”
“You’ve only begun.”
“I don’t know who you are, but I know what I am.”
“Then you know me.”
“Get out.” Her quest for the truth had allowed this lunatic into her sanctuary.
The young man of thirty-something stood and offered his hand, but Eartha would not accept it.
“You’re right, Eartha. It’s really only fluff.”
And when he left, it seemed to Eartha that he had never really been there.