Every so often I get to wondering about Suzanne. We never had a romance, but we had an intimacy. It was a heightened and very deliberate kindness shared between people who were often kind, but not personally so. We were both displaced in Winona, Mn. I found her dating an acquaintance from my home town, which I'm slowly learning to admit as here.

I can't and wont try to fit her on this screen. I'll give you a snapshot, but that's all-the rest is mine. The rest is growing inside me like a myth or a morning glory.

We didn't talk much. She was a shitty talker. Small talk was just not her favorite song. I don't have any clue what her favorite song was. I know her favorite word, though, it was "pensive" and most of the time it's mine, too. She had some scars on her wrists. Not the cutter kind. She had the short hesitant ones athwart and the really mean it ones the long way. The watch and a tasteful bracelet covered the shy cuts, but she made no effort to hide the long ones. We never talked about that.

We talked a lot about abstracts and books. I never gave her back her Flannery O'Conner: The Complete Stories. Partly because I never saw her again and partly because it's a piece of her I wanted to have. I could have made the trip to see her one last time, but I knew what it would be and I didn't want that shitty goodbye with the big fucking nail in it. I was alright with our so long with every intention of seeing each other again, but both of us sure we wouldn't. Well, not exactly alright, but at peace with it. We traded books we had just bought in an antique store together, I hope she still has mine and I hope it means to her what hers means to me.

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