She slumps over, forearms
spread on the desk, thick mascara
and lilac shadow weight her lids.
Just tell me what to do, she pleads.
Hopeful she’ll complete
this one assignment,
I squat at eye level:
Tell me what you’re thinking.
Talk to me.
As she describes a mountain range
of rising and falling plot events,
I glimpse the face she buries
beneath layers of makeup and inertia.
I beam, she smiles – a ripple
of clear, bright water washes over us.
No, I’m not going to do it.
I don’t like to think. It’s too hard.
Shadows fall, eyes shut.