“It’s the job,” she’d say, when Tchaikovsky announced a text. Better not to say someone’s dead; they either already knew or they’d never get it.
“I’ll be back when I can.” She’d step out carrying her go bag and never saying if I survive. If they understood already, it was cruel. If they didn’t, it was crueler.
“It was hard,” returning, never filling in the gory details, the struggle to pull herself back to humanity, the blood that never totally washed out. If they’d asked, they already knew.
“I’ve got to go:” never even hinting at the pain of being so close to someone so human.
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