＃４

I am flotsam, she insisted: a memoir to what once was, held hostage by the pale bitter sea, destined to be thrown ashore and shatter or serve as blank curiosity to the playful young and still-eager old; I am debris, component, a fraction of a failed narrative. There is nothing you can do for me, she smiled wispily, nor that I can do for you.

I do understand, ma’am, replied I vacantly, but you still need to pay your tab.