When she was nineteen, she spent an hour and eight minutes looking at a blank piece of paper. During that time, her phone rang twice. If she hadn't looked up in the following two minutes, her roommate would have spent thirty-four seconds building up the courage to tap her shoulder.
In kindergarten, she was asked to share a word with the class that started with an S. She wouldn't go to the front of the room or even stand up, but instead wound her ring finger around a loose thread in her corduroy pocket and whispered, “Stradivarius.”
When her mother died, they found a shoebox in her closet full of unopened and untouched valentines.
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