The Heart Of Who He Is

That's gross Arthur, says Louisa.

Why? says Arthur.

It was sweet when it stuck to your lip by accident, says Louisa. But now it's different.

Because now I'm aware of it, says Arthur. 

You should have swallowed it, says Louisa. Or thrown it away.

But now, says Arthur, your poem has the potential for a new level. Disgust born of sweetness.  

I hadn't thought of it that way, says Louisa.

Now you can't avoid it, says Arthur.

He picks off the orange juice vesicle, and flicks it at Louisa.

It lands on her nose.

She allows it to stay there.

A car approaches, along the white sand.

It stops. Out gets Angelina. She opens a door and lets Terence out.

Terence runs over the sand to the pinkish brown shale.

Guess what? They died! says Terence.

What bad luck, says Louisa.

Have you got any peelings? asks Terence.

Orange peelings, says Louisa. A few.

Can I have them? asks Terence.

What for? asks Louisa.

Replacements, says Terence. Kierky said there will be other peelings.

Not peelings with feelings, says Louisa.

That's a good poem, says Terence. Not peelings with feelings. Where are they?

Wait, says Louisa. Saint Roley is here, with an important question.

What is it? asks Terence.

It goes to the heart of who he is, says Louisa.

Or who he thinks he is, says Arthur.

Yippee! cries Terence. I love that question.

He runs over to where Saint Roley is listening to Porntip and Gaius discussing a fossil.

I'm here! says Terence.

Gaius and Porntip don't even look up from the chancelloria. Is it sceleritome-bearing or not?

I have a question, says Saint Roley. Why did you give me my name?

It's the name of who you are, says Terence.

It may not be, says Saint Roley. Try to remember. I don't remember. I was a baby.

It was that stupid Baldy! says Terence. He had your brother. He said he was going to call your brother Saint Malo. So I said you could be called Saint Roley.

There is no Saint Roley, says Saint Roley.

Yes, there is, says Terence.

I remember, says Gaius, looking up at last. You wanted to call him Chicken. But someone in our party said he should have a better name than that, because he was to be a role model, which is when you came up with Saint Roley.

I knew that, says Terence (although he had really forgotten).

Saint Roley rolls his eyes.

He now has a great deal to think on.