The concrete and plaster basement was an unremarkably standard contemporary of its ilk, a folding table beside the side-by-side five year old ***tag (...m?) washer & dryer. An orange shag throw rug in the middle of the bare concrete floor (yep, that one), which was slightly sloped and had a drain in the middle of it. Bare concrete block walls, a pair of small windows high on one side. A shelving unit against the back wall full of junk and various odds and ends. Nothing remarkable or unusual about. If I can’t take away your pain, at least I want to succeed in sinking myself to the very depths of your melancholy and share it with you. If not to relive you then at least to save myself.” You break out in laughter, “Where did you learn to talk like that cookie man? You’re sweet but you lie without knowing.” “I’m not lying,” I tell you, “Did you really think you’d always be the self-sacrificing girl, the protective woman, the care giver, the comforter, obliged to bear pain, to remain. More

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