“Yeah? You think blue is my colour?” He questions, finding it easy to focus on part of a conversation that means absolutely nothing. Colours, glitter, appearances, none of those things matter to Moss anymore, none of them nag at his deeply unhappy and unsettled soul, none of them remind him of everything that he’s lost when they speak of them so easily and aimlessly. It’s kind of nice, actually, Naomi is kind of nice. He hadn’t been expecting to find anyone or anything of use during his extremely depressing, solitary walk, but he’s so very glad at the company that has surprised him.
“The nicest? Well I’m not sure about that.” He doesn’t want to disagree with her completely, but he’s sure there are nicer people, those people being exactly who he’s always looked up to from afar and strived to become exactly like. Kindness was completely foreign to Moss growing up, and he realises in this conversation that his attempt at ensuring no one else has such bad experiences comes out and continues working even when he’s unaware of the fact. But then again, maybe none of that’s true, maybe he’s easily the nicest because the people in Wastoid are simply so below most’s expectations of other human beings. He tries to not dwell on these thoughts, and his exhaustions comes to his rescue as he can switch his focus lazily to the more pressing voice that speaks to him, the only one speaking out loud and being more than internal thoughts.
Oversharing has never been a problem for Moss; Moss loves to listen, he loves to help, he loves to gain insights into others, and he loves to help. He doesn’t ask to be polite, he asks because he cares, and he cares because it’s simply in his nature to do so - regardless of how well he knows Naomi or not. It’s rare to find people who really do want to talk about the things that matter, but a part of Moss is glad that Naomi does begin to speak; the other part of him isn’t glad that Naomi is struggling so much, but he is glad to gain the insight so he can hopefully help. A lot of what she says really resonates with him, though he doesn’t interrupt with his thoughts of relatability, not wanting to speak over her at a time of such vulnerability. He finally speaks up when she speaks of needing life instructions. “Yeah, God, wouldn’t that just be… The most helpful. An instruction manual on life.” He needs one too.
It’s interesting to hear her speak on. The conversation grows deeper, and it’s scary to think of thoughts on such a serious plain, but in a strange way, even though Naomi is the one who’s speaking, it kind of feels relieving to Moss. “I used to feel that, when I was a kid.” Moss isn’t afraid of his own vulnerability, but part of him does worry to elaborate. He only speaks on in hopes that Naomi can feel comfort in being at least somewhat understood. “I’d look at all the kids I went to school with, see them with their happy families. I’d wonder if I’d ever get to experience it- and I didn’t, so I’d think… Is this it?” He doesn’t speak in an overly sad tone, having gone through healing over his childhood in his later life. “But then…” This is when the conversation does reach truly sad for him, this is when he clearly isn’t bringing up troubles he’s healed from. “It wasn’t it, and I found my family. My patience was worth it, I guess.” It should be a happy thing, a good thing, but there’s clearly more to the story. He wonders if she already knows, if she’s aware of the loss of his son and his wife, but he doesn’t elaborate. He can’t.
Naomi stretched her legs out under the table, the heel of her boots stirring up mulch and dirt. She looked at him as he spoke - really looked at him. The emotions that rippled through his expression were subtle, and she likely would’ve missed them if she hadn’t been paying close attention. When he finished speaking, she got the distinct impression that that wasn’t the end of the story. Naomi opened her mouth to ask him why, despite his assertion that he had found his family, he still seemed so... well, mournful. But she closed her mouth. Took a deep, slow breath through her nose. Felt it expand in her lungs. This was neither the time nor place to prod at whatever it was Moss left hanging in the air between them. Despite her own willingness to share every thought that came to her head, she had the emotional intelligence to know that not everybody felt the same.
“Patience,” Naomi repeated. “Never been very good at that. Got any advice?” She offered a soft smile and a look that said: I don’t want to accidentally hurt you with my big mouth. She had no idea if he’d pick up on that, but it was important to her that she attempt to communicate it. Naomi wondered how much of the human experience was lost in attempts.
“Do you think,” she began, adjusting her fringe with the tips of her fingers, “that people are just built a certain way and they stay like that forever? Immovable object, unstoppable force, and all that. Or do you think we can change? I like to think it’s the latter. Really makes life seem more bearable when you imagine you have a say in its progression. But I don’t know...” She looked up at him, elbow propped on the scratchy wood table and chin resting in the heel of her palm. “Maybe we’re all just dolls in God’s dollhouse, and he’s a total sadist. Getting a sick kick out of making us suffer.”
