"Snacks are very excuse-like, you know," Shelly tells Bartholomew, with a blatant tone of suggestion. "Meals don't intimidate me," he retorts, obviously unsure of himself, "I'm just rarely that hungry." He sinks slightly in his chair. They both know what has to be done, and neither is much excited about it.
Tense silence.
"You're going to have to face your problem sooner or later," she states.
Silence continues.
Bartholomew turns to get out of his chair, but instead pauses as if he had caught himself unconsciously falling into some addictive pattern. He inhales and lets out a shallow sigh, and then intentionally falls backwards, holding the chair to his body as he does so. His body and chair fall with a thud and a clack on the hardwood floor. Shelly just stands, arms crossed. She almost rolls her eyes, but catches herself, and tries to maintain her composure. Bartholomew lies on the ground, still holding the chair to his bottom, with a grin almost on his face. His eyes are wide, gulping down the ceiling's refreshing image.
"Fine," Shelly leaks, "If you want to eat ceiling snacks for the rest of your life, then go ahead." She exits the room flusteredly, via the rope ladder outside the window. "Ceiling snacks?" Bartholomew thinks to himself, "What the fuck does that mean?"
He lies on the floor for a few more seconds before he lets go of the chair and climbs to his feet, leaving the chair horizontal. He stands for a moment, staring at the window, contemplating what to do. Food enters his mind. His throat tenses. Eyes close. 3 seconds pass. Eyes open. The sky convinces him to approach the window, and he climbs out and down the rope ladder.
- 
