B: No.
P: Yes.
B: No.
P: Why not?
B: It's not the right time.
P: It's never the right time. What is the right time?
B: When Nasturtiums bloom.
P: That's an excuse.
B: But they bloomed in profusion.
P: It's still an excuse...
B: It's a fact.
P: And what if they don't bloom?
B: They've always bloomed. The only time it didn't happen was...
P: Five generations ago when your great, great grandfather was a child. Yes I know. He was the only one in your family with blue eyes and black hair. He spoke Arabic in his sleep.
B: It was actually southeastern Mesopotamian.
P: Is that really a language?
B: If you heard it, you'd know it.
P: I defer to you. But I do believe it's possible for the Nasturtiums not to bloom this season.
B: It only happened once, and it will not happen again. Nature says so...
P: Have you spoken with Nature lately?
B: More or less.
P: Which one?
B: More, I'd say.
P: Are you certain?
B: Mostly.
P: You don't seem certain.
B: Okay, yes. Yes, every morning. The Mourning Dove, calls, "Coo hoo, coo hoo, coo hoo, hoo hoo." And I answer. " Wa hoo wa hoo hoo hoo hoo."
P: It could be saying anything...
B: I'm pretty sure it's predicting the bloom of the Nasturtiums.
P: But how do you know it's not speaking Greek?
B: Because I know Latin from Greek. "Coo hoo, coo hoo, coo hoo, hoo hoo." That's distinctly Latin.
P: Are you sure?
B: I don't know if I turned the lights off in my house, but I do know Latin was spoken.
P: I still don't believe you.
B: And how would you know? Are you a Latin scholar?
P: No. But I know I turned my lights off in my house.
P: That's a very good point. But whether it cooed to you in Latin or Greek, it's still an excuse. I think you're making excuses for Nature...
B: Making excuses for Nature? I'd never do that. I only make excuses for myself.
P: You're still a pathological liar.
B: And how would you know that?
P: Because I heard you talking to yourself among the Wisteria three phases of the Full Moon ago, the one they call the Narwhal Moon. You distinctly told yourself that you're a liar. Remember?
B: I did?
P: Yes. I distinctly remember you telling yourself, "Beatrice, as I stand out here beneath the sky, moon,, and stars,, I'm a liar."
B: Okay, so I may have lied to myself, but are you an Astronomer?
P: Why do you ask?
B: Because an Astronomer would know that there is no such phase of the Moon called the Narwhal Moon.
P: Says who?
B: Says all Astronomy books written about the phases of the Moon.
P: I didn't know that.
B: Well, if you'd read them all, then you'd know....
P: Have you read them all?
B: I don't have time for that. I listen to recorded books, or I consult with an Astronomer on Main St.
P: Don't you mean Astrologist?
B: What difference does a few letters make? The truth is at stake. I don't have time for this.
P: But you have time to confuse an Astronomer with an Astrologist.
B: Life is too short for a Spelling Bee. I have people to see, and places to be.
P: But it all starts with The Truth. You don't want to face the truth, do you?
B: Now why would I not want to do that?
P: Because... Every time I see you gazing up at the Sun, you're always shading your face like this....
B: That's because I'm always forgetting my sun block. It's not safe to gaze up at the Sun without doing this.
P: It's because you don't want to face the truth.
B: Do you know what Ultra violet rays and atomic particles can do to the skin?
P: Yes.
B: Then why do you question me? This is a matter of Science, and Science and Truth have always walked hand in hand like lovers?
P: Not around here, they don't.
B: You haven't noticed?
P: That's funny because I know the truth and I'm familiar enough with science to know one from the other, so that if truth and science were walking together holding hands, I would certainly notice.
B: Could it be that you've been looking in the wrong place?
P: Impossible. I'm always looking out my window. I have a view of everything around.
B: You spend most of your time in your basement.
P: But I sleep in my attic next to the window with my eyes open. I see everything that passes by at night.
B: But what about during the day?
P: I keep my blinds down. The house stays cooler that way.
B: Then how do you know?
P: Because a degree or two makes a big difference. I have sensitive skin.
B: I'm talking about what you see outside of your house. So what if you're in your attic then how can you see outside?
P: Well, I'm in the basement, and my cousin, Julius, is up in the attic keeping watch. He takes notes, and lets me know who or what passes by.
B: Then you do know.
P: More than I want to, in fact.
B: Yes, I can see it in your eyes. May I ask a question?
P: That's your prerogative.
B: Did you ever notice?
P: Notice what?
B: Notice that every-time we go on one of these gallivants, we end up at this same juncture. Don't you think that odd?
B: I hadn't thought about it. But now that you mention it, yes, the landmarks do seem a bit familiar. Yes, the oak tree. The dogwood. And the Cottonwood. And all lined up in the same configuration.
P: Why do you think that is?
B: Coincidence?
P: I wouldn't say so.
B: Habit?
P: I don't think so.
B: Then why? You tell me.
P: Because one of us enjoys going around the Mulberry Bush. And who do you think that is?
B: Not me. I'm not an aficionado of shrubbery. Mulberry bushes mean nothing to me. Nasturtiums are my concern.
P: Do you have any concern for direction? North, South, East, and West?
B:I certainly know where I've been. And, yes, I certainly know where I'm going.
P: Prove it.
B: Well. The sun is there, and if it were night The Big Dipper would be there. And since Ohio lies in that direction... That means... We are back where we started.
P: Exactly.
B: Which means there's nothing to prove.
P: But you're forgetting one thing. The reason why we keep coming back to this very same spot in the first place.
B: And what would that be?
P: Should I spell it out?
B: T-r-u-t-h. Are you happy now?
P: Why aren't we able to get there or find semblance of it?
B: Because it is a long way to Tipperary.
P: Not if you live there.
B: You have a very strange perspective, if I might say so.
P: And what about yours? If your perspective is so correctly calibrated, why is it that are we always coming back to this same spot. Doesn't that seem a bit fishy to you?
B: Yes, something doesn't smell right in the state of Denmark or Norway.
P: This is here. We are thousands of miles from both.
B: And yet, I fear, we'd still be no closer.
P: If it were only night, and the stars were out...
B: The truth is my GPS' batteries ran out of charge.
P: Truly?
B: I'm afraid so.
P: So we don't really know if this is the right here or not?
B: I blame technology. And your compass?
P: It's spinning out of control. We must be positioned over a magnet deposit.
B: There's no hope. The truth just too elusive to find this afternoon.
P: There's always tomorrow.
B: Forget tomorrow. I'm just plain exhausted.
P: Next week?
B: I suppose.
P: Are you as hungry as I am?
B: You mean like, you could eat a whole cheesecake by yourself?
P: Well, with a quart of milk to wash it down.
B: Should we find someplace?
P: We must. We can't live on truth alone.
B: Nor cheesecake.
P: We'll have it for dessert. I know a place that makes the best pot roast. It's on me.
B: That's kind of you.
P: And what about the Nasturtiums? I'd like to see them in bloom.
B: And let the truth molder in the ground for a while?
P: It will spring forth in its good time.
B: Absolutely.
P: But we should eat first.
B: We should. And then we can see the Nasturtiums.
P: The Nasturtiums can wait till tomorrow, but my stomach can't.
B: Mine, neither. To our stomachs.
P: To the stomach. Without it, there is no truth or Nasturtiums.
They bow to one another, exit the stage.
