She talks without pause about books, school, computers, e-readers, clothes, and soccer, and apologizes (unnecessarily) for talking too much, even as she tells her younger sister not to interrupt her.
The trees are dusted with yellow and pale orange, and the shadows are long as we stand together beside the remains of a picnic. Most people have left, except for a businessman who tells us about his mystical healing powers.
I don't think it's best for me to stay in my current home for more than a year or two. We'll see.
In the car, an atmosphere of rancor and brokenness.
His speech is made up of several beautiful threads that don't get tied together.
Seared tuna with avocado and mango. The ingredients separately don't move me one way or another, but together they're bliss.
He looks away at one point, tears in his eyes, as he asks for advice. My voice sounds stronger and wiser than I am; the words emerge from a place that's deeper than the surface pettiness and worries in my life. But I don't know if any long-term good will come of this conversation.