"Does she... does this Lynn have bigger breasts?" she asks. She is standing in front of me and she is sobbing and she pauses between words as though each were its own sentence. "Oh.
Before we stopped talking, she quoted Hunter S. Thompson in an email. Plenty of people express mild thunderclap when it is revealed that I’ve never read Thomspon. So did she.
The problem being her shoes. I don’t get them. She is wearing a gray t-shirt that probably once belonged to someone else, its screen printed ink faded and flaking and missing, in spots.