Convened in a court of accusations, my point is that it never happened but my refusals only seem to make it true. I tell her that, but she props her indignation up with other peoples lies like wadded paper jammed underneath an uneven table leg. I feel so frustrated then that I could cry, which makes me angry, and when I take it out on her I know I’ve gone too far, though it doesn’t stop me. I’ve painted her face with a pastiche of pointillist swatches in shades of anger and betrayal, stained by watercolor streaks of sorrow.

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