People

Heather lives a life of Fast Sundays. A tragic, treacherous cycle of fasting and then eating Sunday dinners. She's in the crux of that dilemma. She flits between enlightenment and epicureanism, feeling strong and powerful and heightened and beautified and hungry to deflated, inflated, succumbed and sinful. She hates it, too. And says people can just Fudge off, Gouda hell, stop being Cruller than Shiitake mushrooms you Brownie-nosers Andes leave her alone.
Peter Potts is no longer a mobile phone salesman. He shares his operatic gift.
Joe just grunted: the loudest sound (other than occasional squawks) that I've ever heard from that chicken boy. He gets quiet when he's excited, so during conversation, his voice decreases in decibals. It is first indifferent in beginning formalities, and therefore audible. Then, after the "hi's" and "how are you's" are done with and you've asked him about music or Peru, all you see are smiling, moving lips. And you have to nod and smile back, and speak rather loudly in reply - just to assure yourself that your hearing faculties are all intact. Chicken boy makes me deaf, for an instant.
Nichole is walking. Her bottom is sore and she feels a bit self-conscious about her legs, but doesn't think about it too much. She's concentrating, rather, on feeling the gold necklace pirouetting around her collarbone - jangling with every footfall. It's a heart locket. Inside is one of her Father's curly hairs. She loves him. He loves her too. Her mother had been calling lately - crying tears and snot into the phone and sniffling out pleas to return and whispering desperate flatteries, trying to toady Nichole into going back home. But Nichole didn't want to go back there - to her multiple-sclerosised toddler half-brother that ate all of the food and money, to her family's silly games (feeling the cold cubed ice in the bowl of water, pressing between the pen- and ultimate toes and transferring to a cup before time ran out), simple silly things that her mother and stepfather laughed their eyes out about. So Nichole was still walking, and she realized that the necklace was the reason. She had been living with her father for a month now. So she could not go back to that other place. Besides, he gave her his hair.
Larry's cursed, I think. I don't know what it is exactly that afflicts him, but I see shadows chasse across his forehead, nuancing his brow. They jete around his conversation, lending imprecated overtones to even the lightest of topics - sporadic vacancies in the midst of animation. Stares into nothing while talking about socks of all things.