Orange coated the air like sugar water, leaving stickiness at every touch. The marina clinked with swaying halyards and creaked with mooring cushions. They cut dual paths through the humidity, thankful for a cover to their discomfort. Her silk summer shirt was cut for breeze and sex appeal, which wasn't helping his train of thought. His oxford was un-ironed, sleeves rolled, collar open. Their footsteps left thuds on the worn planks of the dock.

"Bob told me about L.A."

"The job seems hard to refuse."

"You hate LA."

"Who doesn't? It's hard to like a town where your worth as a human being can be summed up in three questions: where you work, where you live, what you drive."

"So don't go. You've got options. Doesn't there come a point where you put life before work?"

"I say that to myself every day, but life seems to bend me to its expectations. I'm starting to believe I am driven more by insecurity than ambition."

"You were always too hard on yourself."

"Harsh or honest? I once swore that I would always keep life in perspective, that I would never look back and ask 'what have I been doing for the last 5 years.' And yet I feel locked in by lifestyle. The bohemian life is a lot less romantic if you are actually living it, I think. Hence, avoidance."

"You always had a penchant for extremes. I have never suggested you throw your life and work to the wind. Why can't there be a middle ground?"

She kicked a snail shell. He stared at the stern of a boat and traced the italic lettering "Buxom Baby, Portsmouth" until he heard the plop.

"Extremes are easy. Compromise is hard. Obsession or convalescence -- they seem much the same. People embrace immobility and stability because it is easy. It is easy to work your day job and sit in front of the telly until your brain oozes like Sara Lee jelly. It is easy to pretend to be addicted to work when you are really addicted to routine. It is safe, simple, comfortable. Emotions are hard. Life is hard. Questions are hard. You stop thinking and you let friction consume you. And then to start moving again, it takes more force, more energy that one can seemingly muster."

"Come now, you certainly haven't sat still long enough for paralysis to take hold."

"That is exactly my point. It's circular. Paralysis or frenetic movement, the extremes meet and their contact point is called laziness. Work, travel, work, travel. There is too much to be done so you know exactly what to do. No strings, no compromises, no questions, just action."

"Strings."

"Yes, strings. Coils of them. Little snakes that wrap you up, sink their teeth in, and slowly grind you with their poison."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Risk. Love. Life. Dependence. Trust. Who needs it?"

"You need it."

He swiveled sharply but her eyes were on the ground.

"Do I? It's hard, you know."

"You don't need to say anything to me."

"No, you never push. You never call my bluff. You just send up smoke signals in a language I barely know. You keep everything tied up while I go flailing through life. Once, you called it violent honesty. I call it lack of restraint. There hasn't been a bridge I haven't burned. There hasn't been a mistake I haven't made."

"Jeremy, has anyone ever mentioned that you're a drama queen?"

"Yes. But this is me. All square edges and sticks and spears poking out. I careen and bump my way through. Please fasten your seatbelts, welcome to JerAir. You can expect turbulence but we've got plenty of vomit bags. We're prepared for all occasions. Look, Dee, it's my way of taking this world on my own terms."

"I call it a defense mechanism."

He sat on the bulkhead and let the air settle around his shoulders. The orange had shifted to a deep cerulean blue. Fishing into his back pocket he pulled out a pack of American Spirits and lit one.

"Compromise."

"Strings."

"You think this is all about you?"

"No, I know it is all about me. Go on, run away. You ran hard enough to get here. Now that you've got me, you've become chicken shit."

"I never crossed a bridge..."

"You didn't burn. You said that already."

"Dee..."

"Just shut up for a second, can't you?"

The halyards clinked and a motor yacht revved diesel engines. A cloud of black smoke rose behind them and the Buxom Baby began backing away from its mooring, the oil slick splitting into Rorschach fantasies. She kept on walking and he watched her, until with a jerk he flicked his butt into the water and stood to follow.

"It's never going to get easier."

"It's never going to be easier."

"What do you want? You want me to stay? You want me to say sayonara to L.A. -- see you, pricks, I'm staying in nowheresville?"

"Answer your own questions."

"Why can't you give just a little? Why can't you sound off like I do? Expulsion. Openness. Kill the restraint and say what you are thinking."

"Why? Why should I make this so easy for you? Why should I have to meet you on your terms, when they are more unpredictable than, than your mood. You need a mind reader to capture what I am saying? What I am screaming? You need verbalization to remove a shadow of a doubt? You want me to make it simple for you with your strings and snakes? You want a nice little box, tied with a bow, but I'm not playing your game."

"Dee, there is no game."

"There is always a game. You are always a game. No, don't look like that. You don't lie, you don't cheat, but you spin little webs in your head and you end up wrapping me up in your threads. Here's one for you. Where are the strings? It seems to me that I'm covered in them. I'm covered, and you're virtually scot-free. Where are my snakes versus your venom? Your gifts come with a sting."

"I'm not going to L.A."

"No."

"Don't you want me to tell you why?"

"No."