flux
I've never been able to braid my hair. I've watched, jealously, as other girls dextrously twist their strands into gleaming bands, little ropes dangling off the sides of their heads. I daydream about my hair growing out long and strong, and chaining it together into a little rope that I could use to swing from the beams overhead.
Plants are really something. Can't say it takes my mind to an entirely wholesome place, though, when I think about plants. Because they're basically just going at it all the time, forever. Every trip into the garden is a constant orgy of plant proliferation and procreation. All this sin lodged in your front yard, surrounded by teeming piles of dirt.
The lock clicks into place. I turn to face the only other occupant within the room. He's sitting casually at the table, long manicured nails clicking repetitively against the too-white table.
They sent you in to diagnose me, then?
I nod.
They didn't tell you who I was.
"He's breaking down, I think." What of it. Doesn't make any difference to you. "We need to get Theresa. She's the only one that can hold him together." Metaphorically? Literally? Breaking apart at the seams, and there's only one person who can help me? That is just unbearably predictable.