She’d make fun of my name, telling me that Randy was an “old person name” for a little bit longer than a normal joke should last. She’d brag, ...n more than one occasion, about how her IQ was in the ninety-eighth percentile. Occasionally she’d show me a piece of her writing, and I’d point out something wrong with it, and she’d tell me how unnecessary a criticism it was, then hasten to point out that I’d made a similar mistake in something I’d shown her. Then I’d tell her I was an economics. All she could get out was: “He is leaving me.” So I became your damage control. What did I do? I picked her up from the floor. I brushed away her tears and held her as closely as I dared. A part of me was afraid she would break, as if she were made of fine crackled glass. I held her hands to stop the shaking. I put her into the bed she once shared with you. I covered her with a quilt, then another one, then another one. I tucked them around her as if she were a sick child. I left her long. More

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