was over. Abby had been at the new, studio flat,
significantly down from 21st & Race, which was,
new or not, now itself flat, sans bay windows, stepped-up to,
throne like bedroom space. She was miserable.
I was pissed. She just seemed to be going around
in circles. I scrawled, in a letter never sent,
“You little paranoid bitch, doesn’t it ever
bother you that you’re incapable of having
relationships? You tell me you “feel awful all
the time,” don’t you think there’s a reason for it?”
As I reached back, sipped a hard drink, that rage against
her was the last before her own skating fall into
thin Philly ice, noxious crystal, sped up informality, walls.
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