
It had been six weeks, but the memory lay in her like the pit of a stone fruit. Lila hunched over in the passenger seat, leaning her head against the cold, greasy glass of the window. Rain drummed the glass with a wild, hammersome kind of fury that seemed fatally separate from the precise, measured conversation inside the car. Lila fantasized punching the window open, breaking it like a flower splitting into bloom, fractals spiraling everywhere— how the bone would brutalize the skin, nerves lighting…
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