It was fun, Kiki.’ And I don’t know why it’s this statement that haunts me on the ride home. It sits on my spirit obtrusively, making my heart itch. I don’t know why it’s this that makes my eyes sting, and the tears fall and for me to sob so hard that my driver, a concerned uncle, hands me a pocket tissue and says, ‘It will be all right, sister. It will pass.’ I hope it does. I don’t know why it hurts. It’s not supposed to hurt any more.
