Jenny looked at the silver rock in her hands and felt ambivalent.

She walked over to the window and reflected on her grey surroundings.
She had always loved sleepy Los Angeles with its hollow, horrible hills.
It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel ambivalent.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the
figure of Tom. Tome was a special writer with greasy fingernails and red
legs.

Jenny gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was an admirable,
bold, tea drinker with ugly fingernails and greasy legs. Her friends saw
her as a diced, distinct deity. Once, she had even rescued a rabble
snatching blind person from a burning building.

But not even an admirable person who had once rescued a rabble
snatching blind person from a burning building, was prepared for what
Tom had in store today.

The wind blew like singing dogs, making Jenny fuzzy.

As Jenny stepped outside and Tom came closer, she could see the misty
glint in his eye.

Tom gazed with the affection of daring grubby goldfish. He said, in

hushed tones, "I love you and I want equality."

Jenny looked back, even more fuzzy and still fingering the silver rock.
"Tom, I don't have the money," she replied.

They looked at each other with jumpy feelings, like two old-fashioned,
old ostriches talking at a very stupid snow storm, which had trance
music playing in the background and two thoughtless uncles jogging to
the beat.
Jenny studied Tom's greasy fingernails and red legs. Eventually, she
took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began Jenny in apologetic tones, "but I
don't feel the same way, and I never will. I just don't love you, Tom."

Tom looked puzzled; his emotions raw like a kindhearted, kindly kettle.

Jenny could actually hear Tom's emotions shatter into thousands pieces.
Then the special writer hurried away into the distance.

Not even a cup of tea would calm Jenny's nerves tonight.