will bring her back, Jeff tells you when he discovers you weeping among the hand-me-down clothes in your closet, a candle burning dangerously close to the soft falling cotton.
It’s best to get on with living now, Nora. We only live once and if we are brave we live life the way we like and like it all the time we live it. Don’t you think Jeannette would want you to be brave?
You don’t know what Jeannette would want but you are sure you and she would lie together in the dark, telling each other over and over your own rendition of the story of the day she died. In each remembrance you will try to be less vulgar about what hurts. If this pleases Jeannette, you never know.
Let’s talk, says spoilsport to optimist, three months into Robin’s skin. You’ll bolt. You will.
No I won’t. I’ve given it up. I don’t care about her other lovers. I want to learn how to love. I came from Toronto looking to love.
We’ll see, stubborn girl.
Robin puts her tender mouth on yours. This takes the world by surprise.
Nothing is given to us, Nora, she says, her female body exposed.
Robin begins to teach you about silence. The tick of a second hand. A world turning. Systems hardening and cracking. Bone ground down beneath the skin. Crumbs tracked through a forest.
The unbearable mind, alone.
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