She was comelier than window dressing; twice as useful, her smile thirty-one shards of glass. Her left hand stammered as she wrote and it was all alone she celebrated the small details.
“Everything around me goes to hell,” sipping water, the other hand shaking, “perhaps what really plagues us is not reacting to the right depth.”
“I read it in a comic. I read everything indiscriminately. It’s all learning.”
Watching how you dress, the shape of your mouth as you drink. Her cheeks go hollow; eyes feeding on your idiosyncrasies.
“You can be angry all you want because he’s the only one who observes. Be angry at yourself for not being interesting enough.”
We do not affiliate ourselves with such an opinion. We are busy on a novel; on self-improvement; on not complaining about the weather; on trembling the right amount when kissed; on shaping rice; on doing doing doing and not going away until everyone’s okay.
“I still want to punch him. I’ll be dead the day I don’t.”
She grins and leaves. We think she’s given up.
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