The Slow Churn

The builder renovating our basement is the father of two sisters who have been my best friends since I was a kid. Like I don’t remember a time we weren’t up in each other’s kool aid, and we are two for two weddings as bridesmaids (but no pressure, Melanie. I kind of see you eloping in Turkmenistan on a whim anyway).

This morning, cajoling Iris out of her cocoa-stained pjs around nine-thirty and bouncing Oliver to sleep to the intermittent drilling of drywall, it occurred to me that even with her thirty years familiarity with me and hours upon hours of personality analysis over coffee and wine (but not at the same time because: gross)—even with living a mile away and getting together every week or two for Kardashian binges, Jennifer doesn’t really know the pacing of my days—or the construction quality of my home’s bones—in the same way her dad or any other type of in-home professional could just by doing the job at hand.

Different ways of knowing, different ways of viewing a life.

Of course, in the real world people are too busy living their own lives to pay much attention to other people. But because I’m writing a murder mystery, my brain is not exactly in the world of rational behavior.

Possibility is what interests me.

And I find it sort of fascinating to think about how two different people could have very different pictures of the same person—a sort of factual dailiness vs. analysis over coffee—and I wonder which would be more accurate in a crime scenario? More able to predict behavior? More insightful?

Not much, you know, but maybe the germ of something…


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