The Q

by Beth Brower

Companionship is one of the great arts of the human soul.”

“Only that I believe”—Arch lifted his shoulders, and the look on his face was so unguarded Quincy surprised herself by listening—“that each one of us has times when what we need most is someone who is willing to sit quietly by, waiting for us. Not interfering, just being.”

“Come to my house Saturday for tea.” “Can’t,” responded Quincy. “I’m busy avoiding human connection.”

“To fit into this corset, I had to choose between my stomach and my lungs. I decided to breathe and, therefore, have no room for eating. Is it any wonder that society women are so dull? They spend all their energy on basic survival. My admiration for them has grown to no bounds, and I rescind all my previous commentary regarding their useless existence. Every day is a matter of life and death. Give them each a medal.”

Quincy didn’t feel like she needed to be brushed off and set on the pedestal of devil-may-care courage—she just wanted someone to sit down in the mud of the whole affair and tell her it was all right to be broken. That’s all Quincy wanted, to be sad and be told it was just fine. And be told that she would be just fine.