December 18, 2002
Lunchtime. Somehow I’ve gotten myself into an argument. I am only half paying attention, the other eye on the wind outside knocking the old beech tree against the wall. My mouth moves and words come out but I’m arguing automatically. Until she speaks. “But I don’t care about Africa!” I look at her, rendered speechless. They accuse me of immaturity, but she’s the one with the childish answer. She turns her back on me. She turns back. “If you want to know about Africa and junk, read a book.” “I have.” “Why?” “I care.” She’s the one rendered speechless now.