In your messages, you seem sure that I will return your call. I sit at the library and avoid writing, again. It’s become a theme, a thing, a sure thing. I'm supposed to say “happy holidays.” The feeling comes over me like a medicine, no, like a syrup, thick and heavy, holds me down, lethargic, and this hour lasts forever. I read some girl’s book who tells the reader to get over it, to quit feeling so down, to move on, do something else, and she mentions constellations and it’s clear that this stuff is garbage but she likes to rhyme her words on the ends of lines and I can’t explain to someone why that’s not okay. I wish I were in a museum alone holding a coffee and interpreting paintings. I got so thin after he left me, but I felt like myself. I often sell my clothes so other people can have them, so I can pay for a car wash, so I can eat yellow lentil soup at Little Flower, where the parents don't mind their children’s chairs as they bump into mine.