( the truth of that is sometimes, yes; the sharpest knife she ever wields is always palmed inwards, quiet ugliness left in the wake of every rage, the awful loneliness of the self-defeating. )

I don't want to talk about it.

( of course.

she shakes her head, as if pre-empting an argument- )

It just - she was -

I didn't care for what she was saying. It doesn't matter, I just - didn't wish to be so easily found, for a little bit.