like a barefoot girl loves the summer day


Beatrix stares at her reflection in the pond. Somebody's singing jazz. It's the radio or something.


She thinks, "I hate the past. My own past."


"He left a trail like a meteor," she thinks. "I was merely the sky."


"There are things you can never have, no matter how much you have of them."


"I was hardly ever abused. I was always the abuser."


She can't cry.