Words

There are a thousand things to be said, but she can never make the words come. That's why she got into this business; words are unnecessary, useless at the most.

She has cleaned out a thousand dresser drawers in her time, and every single sweep unearths another long-buried lesson. Who she wanted to be when she was six, for instance; the paper has thinned in twenty years, and smells of the talcum powder she'd lain under contact paper, for want of a sachet.

But clear as day, in blue marker, her old wish for a car and some nice clothing became obvious. At six, she wanted a new pair of pants. Now she wants a new life.

The innumerable number of motions she might make in one day bring her back to motel rooms she couldn't name, its shades of orange soothing and bland. She could turn over and pick up the Bible...

More words. Words that wouldn't help.

Words reminded her that she wanted the sort of objects she could never earn, not with respect or space or time.

She wants a man who will write it all down for her, but the ones she finds can't even write a single syllable...


The End