If you asked my friends what I was doing during that time, they wouldn’t know. They would say something like fine or ok, I think, I haven’t heard from her but no one would have known. They surely wouldn’t have set foot in my apartment for more than a second.

“You added more pictures?”

That was generous. My apartment was slathered in photographs like wallpaper, everywhere. Feral, I stood at the doorway with my coat already on waiting to go.

“Yeah, it brightens things.”

She kind of nodded, looked around, nothing too revealing. She had to use the bathroom.

“How’s school?”

I began to list them in my head:
1. a three year programfor my MSW
2.40 hours a week as a case manager for those with severe mental health disorders, a case load of 32
4. A part time escort
5. Writing a book that mixes elements of fiction and truth and poetry into a labyrinthian composition reflecting my shadow.
6. volunteering with an organization that works with street based sex workers in Kensington
7. I have begun smoking weed.

“Everything is truly good, Selene.”

8. Complete and utter isolation.

“Great! Let’s go to dinner.”

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