For a brief moment, out in the street, exhaling smoke in the cold and the rain, she revels in her spite. At least it is a feeling. An old one. Like her old self. She used to have a smart mouth. She used to be, for want of a better word, “sassy.” It’s dangerous, remembering that. That exuberance. Glib. She could be so glib. It would be easy enough to be glib again. What she fears most is joy.
