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“There is nothing misty about it,” she says, with a mockery in her eyes. She knows it’s not true but all she needs is the reaction; that inaccessible solemn angst that goes through his eyes while forgetting the difference between the question and the response.
“Ah, they all talk about it. Over and over and over and....” she gasps, catching up on what comes out next:

“They talk about it but they don’t listen. Sometimes even forget there’s someone standing there possibly wiser than...” she can’t finish a sentence.
She has forgotten.
She knows.

There was never that intimate moment of abuse. That volunteer act of generosity between two strangers in bed. She sinks lower and carries the pen with her, and you can hear it moan, trapped inside her clammy fist. Her every word leaves a trace of...

“... the cliché, the false righteousness of the intellect . What to leave and what to erase?”

How would I know unless I present it to you?