The only way we see ourselves is through the reflection of other people. Wanting not to be invisible is another way of saying you need somebody else, that nobody around is performing quite the way you want them to, according to your script.
Marlene warns Sean against disturbing her carefully arranged Lillian Vernon catalogs. One is homeless, the other is a hoarder. One of them has baggage you can see, the other one you can't, but they're both living in the worlds they made. She produces suits: Three-pieces and two-pieces, single- and double-breasted, velvet and tweed. If Sean is Cathy's brother, then he is something ill-defined to Marlene. Ill-defined, but very important. They didn't have children, as far as we know, and if they did we haven't seen them.
Sean's favorite, the first he puts on, was one of Eddie's favorites too. He liked to wear it dancing. Beautiful Sean holds out a hand, and before she knows it, they are dancing. He touches her ass, just to see what it's like. To teach his hands the feel of something new; he says he was only "feeling Eddie." For a second, so was she. They dance.
Cathy laughs, she can't stop laughing, as she explains that she's not doing this because of who she is, that it is different, maybe opposite, from who she really is, as the woman spreads the wax and lays down strip after strip and rips them all away again and finally then she holds the mirror up, for Cathy, so she can see what she has done.
"...That really demands attention, doesn't it?"
Now that you can see it. Form, and function. Designed by nature to be beautiful. "Who is the lucky guy?" There is no lucky guy. "Sorry! Who is the lucky girl?" Cathy Jamison smiles, beams; the lucky girl is Cathy Jamison. Sweet.
At the park Paul tries to feed Adam but he's already fed him enough; he asks carefully how things are at home and gets nowhere. "Half the time I don't even know what the hell she's talking about," Adam admits, more sympathetic than anything he's done so far, and Paul nods sagely. "That's because your mother is a woman. And women, unlike men, never say what they mean. They're annoyingly complicated that way." A woman jogs across their field of vision, she has a dog on a leash, and breasts, and a body. "That's a cute dog," says Paul, who always says what he means except this time, and their eyes track her together, across the scope of their vision, off into the distance, gone. Just memory.
Sean is barely recognizable, she says -- though he looks the same and he's eating out of the garbage -- when Cathy meets him outside the municipal offices. She laughs at his briefcase, and his funny old suit; she's surprised that Marlene gave them to him. "I think she might have the hots for me, which, who can blame her? In fact, if we were just a little bit closer in age, I might even get in there. That old gal's still got a pretty tight ass." His hands remember; they walk together, he notices her strange and tender gait. When she tells him, he is repulsed. His sister is delighted.