The first two pens she snatched from the coffee cup full of pens and highlighters she never used didn’t work.
The third pen did.
Turban, her cat, licked where his balls were three weeks ago.
Her therapist and the Uber driver with the chew spit cup and the pop country radio station sticker on the dash had told her to write her feelings down, stream of consciousness.
Toni’s therapist told her to revisit the writing in 48 hours to see if feelings had changed or remained.
She got four lines down on the back of a landscaping flyer. The ink was pale pink. Her niece must have left the pen over when she was little and Eliza had just completed her first year of undergrad.
The pen still worked.
Toni and Eliza hadn’t spoken in person in years.
The doorbell rang and Toni shuddered.
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