I want to be a writer, she said, in her telegram voice. I want to lack indifference.
I didn't mean to alienate you, her eyes shiny and silver, fingers crossed and tongue tied. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.
There's an awkward pause. She thumbs through the notecards in her head. This is the right way to speak. This is the right way.
I want to be somebody, she said, a crack between words, crabgrass sprouting. I want to live with books. I want to be polyamorous, each page a lover, each book a world.
I didn't mean to make mistakes, her lip chapped, stretched, cracked, red creases. I didn't mean to apologize so damn much.
There's a slight wave. She wonders if it's friendly. This is the right way to cry. This is the right way.