On afternoons like this, when she is alone, Hazel tries to fall out of love with Dawn. She makes a list of all her bad habits, the way she leaves the lid off the butter dish, the way she sticks the old bits of soap together rather than starting a new bar. She thinks of all Dawn’s imperfections, the strange bit on her left ear that’s like an elf’s, or a small rash she had once on her elbow, and she tries to be disgusted instead of charmed by them. Hazel tells herself lies. It’s the only thing she can think to do. She tells herself she isn’t hopelessly in love with Dawn.
