This is us together. This is us in my apartment. Jules in her own place was a different story. I’d go there—she’d have all the lights off, windows closed—this is the middle of summer! Air conditioning, full blast. Refrigerator open. She’s got this blue fish tank, it’s all these little white fish. Silver. No personality. Jules is sitting in the middle of her floor, by herself, legs crossed, taking pictures of her feet. Zooming way in. I’m like: "Jules—"
She’s like: "Shhh! You’re being too loud. Whisper," she says, "Whisper."
I’m talking..totally at normal volume she’s acting like I’m..screaming at her. Like she’s cowering down and shit. Covering her head with her arms. Literally covering her ears every time I open my mouth.
"Jules," I whisper. "Why are we whispering?" But I forget to whisper this last part.
She cowers down in pain..menacing eyes.
"I’m sorry—" I’m whispering everything now "—listen. Come with me to Dorothy Lane. We’ve got to get you out of here."
She shakes her head and leans down to her foot—her body bending flat in half. Her face is by her foot. She’s peeling something..delicately peeling something..off her foot. A piece of skin?
"Jules."
I have to carry her out of the apartment.