SHE FEELS FLAYED UNDER BONNIE’S KEEN GAZE, the accuracy of her assessment whittling her hackles down to stumps. like a ripple on a dark lake, disturbing the calm waters, only to reveal the truth buried in its bottomless depths. ever the stoic, she heaves an exasperated sigh, bowed shoulders held aloft by the tightrope of her spine, hiding dull, haggard eyes that stare holes into the shop’s countertop as though she means to catalogue every line and whorl embedded within the wood. right now, it would be far preferable to whatever maudlin path this conversation is about to devolve into. ❝ and what purpose would friendship serve, exactly? ❞ she asks, stone-faced, like the mere suggestion is ludicrous, a hare-brained idea apropos of nothing. ❝ i have no interest in what is undoubtedly a monumental waste of time. one that would only invite distractions. or worse yet, mistakes. neither of which i can afford. ❞ obstinate convictions perfumed in denial, steadfastly antipathetic to vulnerability. BECAUSE THERE IS NO BETTER COMPANY THAN ANGER FOR WHAT COMES NEXT. it’s a comfort, really, the way it distends inside her pericardium, unending and unignorable. a pincushion full of needles. if loneliness and isolation are the aftereffects she has to suffer through to ensure her success, then that’s a price she’s willing to pay.