She had to-do lists and to-don’t lists, and checklists scribbled on pastel post-its, listing in the wind. She wrapped rubber bands around her delicate wrists, to remind her of all the loans and the liens and the rivers of crumpled receipts, the racy texts where, come to think of it, she hadn’t been all that discreet. There were bullet-points and power-points and points that she felt were worth making, pie charts and bar graphs – shattered panes of glass, stained in a purple acid bath. Funny what you could do with a bank account and a box of crayons. Her best trait, hands down, was that she had a tendency to speak too quickly, while gesturing too wildly with her hands. Paintings didn’t show up on your porch, corsage in hand, car idling curbside with the keys in the ignition, gorgeous and burning. Paintings didn’t tart themselves up like Cleopatra at high noon on a hot day, click their

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