They sat in the courtyard sipping their drinks, the balmy breeze ruffling their hair. They chattered on about camel trips in the Sahara desert, how not to cook artichoke and argued about the cooking time of a boiled egg. He told her about when he got his hair cut last, in Delhi by a woman with large hairy hands. She told him about the time she'd got drunk in a town in Croatia and came across a tramp throwing random shoes at passers-by so she threw some back at him and nearly got arrested by the police at 5 in the morning. She'd escaped on a slow moving milk cart which he found pretty funny. They cackled about it for some time before being interrupted a few times by wandering drunk party goers and Bill noticed how she constantly talked, even when there was little conversation to be had.
He frowned.
'Do you ever stop talking?' he asked curiously with a trace of irritation.
Rosie was amused by his annoyance. She leaned forward to meet his gaze.
'You know that little filter people have in their brain? The one that tells you when to stop talking or remembers when something is inappropriate?'
'Yes?'
'Well, mine's broken' she explained, in all seriousness.
Bill was getting used to her by now so took her bizarre reasoning in his stride.
'So when I talk…'
'The stuff that you say goes straight from your brain without being monitored' guessed Bill.
She thought about it.
'Yes. It's like a constant stream of unconsciousness.'
'Don't you mean stream of consciousness?'
'Well, it would be if I had any sort of filter on what I say.'
He thought about it. That made sense.
'So you just never shut up?'
'The limit does not exist' she confirmed.
Bill now accepted that Rosie was every bit as kooky as she seemed. He found her constant larking around and hilarious innuendo a little bit endearing.
'That explains so much about you' he declared.
She nodded, glad that he got it.
They sat in contented silence to the background of noisy pop songs.