The sweater.

“i hope you have something on underneath that.”

The girl, she stared blankly. Were there holes in her new, old sweater she had managed to look over in her forever fleeting excitement? Did she fail to see something so obvious? A glance down. nothing noticeable. “no. Why?”

Two syllables. A beautiful conversationalist, this one. Excellent work, champ.

“well, I just wondered because it looks itchy. That would drive me crazy. Is it?”

The girl thought. As she did she noticed that the small of her back had a slight itch. Then the blades of her shoulders. Her dry, sad elbows. She smirked, “yes.”

What she really wanted to say, to express, was that it was only truly itchy when she stopped to think about it. The same way the girl enjoyed the cracks and pops that vinyl shared and the way she could feel her heart beat at odd times.. The way she enjoyed things that just exist and happen, she enjoyed the slight irritation. She didn’t notice it. It was comfortable. It existed and she was ok with that. But only one syllable made it out.


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