O Happy Dagger

Her hands move like she was putting on a shadow puppet presentation of Romeo and Juliet while she talks. Her hair is cut short, and sharp and straight. I’m not listening, the fluidity of her movements has hypnotized me. I imagine her apartment, convinced there is an entire wall of nothing but empty, antique picture frames hanging against a wall painted an uncommon colour. Burnt sienna, maybe.

“You still here?” she asks, amused more than annoyed, it seems. I say I didn’t get much sleep the night before, or in the last little while. She asks if I know why.


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