"Talk? Squirrels can't talk, you fool."
"Well, how can you make yourself heard, then?"
"Do you have to pry, Truesdale? You're getting a break, as it is. Do
you have to know _everything_?"
* * * * *
Ted looked at his hands, and at the nutmeg tree. And back at the
squirrel. A thirty-nine year old retired artist, sitting in the sun and
talking to himself. What a jerk he was getting to be.
"Okay, I've been wrong before." The squirrel started for the tree.
"Wait!" Ted almost shouted.
From below, the blonde glanced his way, and he realized his voice had
carried that far.
The squirrel waited; the blonde went back to her book.
"What," Ted asked hesitantly, "did you mean about doing business?"
"You and the blonde. Don't tell me you wouldn't like to get to know
her."