“The crisis hit us all hard, didn’t it,” she said and made a second attempt to get her toes in the water. Yesterday had been a chilly, windy day uncharacteristic of August, and the water hadn’t had much sunlight to absorb. Her friends and she wanted to go swimming at midnight, but they had to wear jackets, so getting naked and wet (not the perverted meaning, mind you) when the wind blew hard as hell did not seem like an extremely appealing idea.
“Excuse me, are you asking questions or not? I am getting cold, and I need to move around, or the water inside me will shrink in volume, which constricts my cells.”
“That is quite a compelling explanation; I hadn’t thought about jellyfish in such a way.”
“Thank you for not considering my brothers and sisters and me not alive enough.”
“Um—“
“Ask me something!”
“Damn, fine, I’m asking!”
She was a girl who asked too many questions, usually ones that came out of a complete nowhere. Imagine a group of friends, including her, sitting on a wooden table in the mountains on a summer day, probably talking about the fries they are eating or about the flies trying to eat their fries. As a completely logical continuation of the conversation, she asks, “Does anyone here know anything about hunting dogs?” People have fun following the leaps her mind makes, but no one has enough time to waste as to understand why it makes them. But now, confronted by this blue jellyfish—a modern variation of the golden fish—her mind blanked out.
No, wrong, it didn’t blank out, but its voices began shouting simultaneously, each trying to shout louder than all the others put together. She stared at the jellyfish, which scared it.
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