Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

oil rising in the quiet room, and rubbed a drop into the deep vertical ridges of my nails. My hands were cold, and the oil felt slick and useless on my skin.

Had I walked down to the office in my nightgown?

I stared at the black ink on the page, my vision blurring.

A tear slipped down my cheek, hot and stinging against my dry skin.

I stood up and walked continue reading …