We Do What We Do in the Dark

by Michelle Hart

She was a sad girl, a lonely girl, and, after a lifetime of practice, she had become so good at this that it had become the most appealing thing about her. This should

“The perfect woman indulges in literature just as she indulges in a small sin; as an experiment, in passing, looking around to see if anybody notices it—and to make sure that someone does.”

His story filled her ears the way music from a radio punctures a peaceful reverie on the beach. She couldn’t wait to be back in her room, alone with her own thoughts.

She felt awful around other people; in a crowd, or even with just one other person, she would become convinced she was not capable of enjoying things to the same degree that everyone else seemed to enjoy them.

She was, however, also annoyed at the way the girls called attention to themselves; so much of her experience with desire had been to hide it.