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There have been times, of course, when she wished her memory more fickle,
She pauses at MEMOIR, studying the titles on the spines, so many I’s and Me’s and My’s, possessive words for possessive lives. What a luxury, to tell one’s story. To be read, remembered.
But it is even a luxury for us normal people. The word will not care what we do with our time here. Nobody will remember us
She’s pretty, she really is, but there’s the troublesome shine in her eyes, a familiar milky light, and he’s relieved he doesn’t have to lie about having plans tonight.
also wtf is a milky light
he has twenty-one years of expensive formal education,
shoulda went to mcneese
His chest tightens, and he has to remind his heart it is not real, not anymore.
wait why is he at his ex’s play and also why is every potential suitor turning out to be gay
And she has no idea what a body is worth, or if she is willing to sell it.
She has not lost an ounce of flesh, but her stomach twists, gnawing on itself, and just as her feet refuse to callus, so her nerves refuse to learn.
i would be so pissed if i was starving and i wasn’t even getting skinny
Remembers the sudden freeze, the brutal chill that stole upon the city, and the wave of sickness that blew in behind it like a late-fall breeze, scattering mounds of dead and dying leaves.
wow her writing is just
She does not think she will ever be warm again.
me during my seasonal depressive episode
The women scorn her from their windows, the men try to buy her on the streets, and the devout, they try to save her soul, as if she hasn’t already sold it. She has said yes to the church, on more than one occasion, but only for the shelter, and never the salvation.
bricked up,
lol
the more you study, the less you believe in any of it.
I didn’t want to live forever. I just wanted to live.”
“But isn’t it wonderful,” she says, “to be an idea?”
“Mr. Strauss, we are an academic institution, not a church. Dissent is at the heart of dissemination.”
“I never understood why I should believe in something I could not feel, or hear, or see.”
“What a hard lesson it must be for you,” she says. “That you can’t have everything you want.”
“Adeline,” he says, stroking her hair. “It will hurt. And it will pass. All things do.”
Three hundred years she’s had to learn the color of his moods. She knows them all by now, the meaning of every shade, knows his temper, wants, and thoughts, just by studying those eyes. She marvels, that in the same amount of time, he never learned to read her own.
