March 18, 2008

“Why are you the one crying?” he asked.

She could not get the explanation to leave her mouth. It would make only as much sense, anyway, as steam in the air over a boiling pot. If only she were designed more like a tea kettle, she thought. If only she were built to shriek.

She set down the phone, roiling. She pressed her palms against the table. When she lifted them back up, they left damp ghosts where her hands bore down.

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