I turned to Anne. ("If only I were older.") I said, "I feel
the same way about you."
More looks of surprise.
I felt exhilarated. I was not accustomed to voicing my gut feelings.
I turned to Sal. ("No, old friend, I'm not trying to steal your power.")
I said, "You have gotten a little paranoid over the past few years.
I hope you can work it out."
He frowned.
I turned to Donna. ("Are you still planning to marry Rama?")
I said, "I have no problem with you."
She nodded.
I turned to Paul. ("What's the penguin doing on the tehlee?")
I said, "We are friends."
He grinned.
"In other words," Rama interrupted, "you have Paul wrapped around
your finger. You have learned much." His twisted compliment threw
me off balance, and I failed to defend the seven-year friendship.
I turned to my brother. ("Love ya, bro.") I said, "I am not
attacking you in the Dream Plane."
"Oh no?" Rama interrupted again.
"I'm not conscious of it."
"Oh, sure you're not," mocked Rama. Then, in a professorial voice,
he explained how, in each family, only a limited amount of power could
be passed to the offspring. "Typically, one child claims most of it.
The others are often so drained that they don't even notice
it's gone.
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