“Please,” Bianca cringes, “Sophie, listen,” as water creeps from the carpet.
“The FUCK!” Sophie’s face is unpinches and pales. The vase of flowers implodes from the floor up onto the table. She draws back her hand.
“Please don’t get mad,” says Bianca.
“You’re on that shit again,” says Sophie. “That fucking drug.”
“Listen,” says Bianca. “You weren’t–weren’t supposed to be back yet…”
“Hey, what’s up?” Sophie retreats from the room. Her movements have a strange, lazy grace, alternated with an odd sharpness. Bianca remembers the first time she saw it: delight, fascination, this new perspective on how people move forward.