she did all the talking, “i am the amaryllis belladonna and i despise being called a naked lady, you dithering fool.”
her delivery, in spite of the chill caused by the sun dipping behind the evening fog and the cool gray wind whistling up the canyon, was clipped, tinged as it was by her boer accent, “what are you doing with your life? why do you insist on spending so much time behind things? get up! get out! take a walk for christ’s sake,” [she’s not the resurrection lily (lycoris squamigera) although she might argue the point with you and not really a lily either, but i digress–ed.], “do something with your life! the light of the computer screen is doing nothing for your complexion. go make friends with those idiot daisies that spend most of the summer giggling, or take a note from the hydrangea and get dressed up and go dancing. then you’d have something to write about instead of digging around in your past like anyone cared.”
and just as startling as her sudden outburst had been to this writer, she stopped her exhortation and turned toward the evening sun on a finger of fog.