Touching Janet’s powdery hand has excavated even more of my jellied-salmon insides—the parts of me that want to grab her arms, pull them behind her, kick her straight out the door, bloodied stump arms still in my hands, beat her to death with them in the hallway, run out the front door with them, still flailing, terrify the parking lot pigeons so they whoosh up and take me with them.
i get her
