“I know you, love. I see you and I know you.” I lather the impossibly long, ginger strands with the soap. “I know you get so mad when you can’t get one across in your crosswords. I know your favorite book is The Great Gatsby. I know you’re quiet because it’s easier than putting yourself out on the line. I know that time spent with Colette and the other girls makes you happy in a way I could never fulfill. I now know you turn your mirrors around because you remind yourself of your mother. I know you, Ophelia, and it’s a privilege.” “It’s scary to be known,” she mumbles. I get that. I feel it
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