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"i know someone who only reads j.d.apos;s _. She reads it every night. When she finishes, she starts again on the first page. Like itapos;s a record. I told her that my favorite part is when h. Gets drunk and he goes to the park. Sits by the lake. He pretends his stomach is shot, he stumbles around in the cold holding on to hs gut. She says did that happen in the book, i donapos;t remember that happening. It was october, an afternoon. She was wearing an old white t-shirt, on it a pentel pen drawing she herself made. No earrings, which suits her unlike other girls. Ponytail, blue jeans, blue shoes, faded. Pimples on the left side of her face. She has a tatoo somewhere. I donapos;t remember where it was, i remember she told me. Then, she looked at me and said i donapos;t want anything to do with you, ever. I laughed and she didnapos;t. I sort of liked her. Sort of. A lot. Once, before that conversation, she took a picture of me for some competition. Held a candy bar over my mouth, used it as a smile, my eyes crinkling."

"what happened to her."

"iapos;m not really sure. Sheapos;s still around somewhere. Probably taking more pictures. Unless she learned something else. Sheapos;s still her. Peopleapos;s lives donapos;t really change until we think they do. Or until they say they have. When they mean it. But what i mean is people donapos;t really change."

"ah."

"you donapos;t really care about any of this. Youapos;re humoring me."

"little boy, what people are mostly concerned about, what will always draw interest, is when someone else says something about their lives. When they realize itapos;s about them and that someone tried to chip out that instance. When the memory is glorious or gloriously forgotten, and is recorded accurately, well enough. You make them remember. That it might be true. Theyapos;d say itapos;s true, theyapos;d say itapos;s an outright lie. They say, they talk about it in their heads. They arenapos;t interested in you but in what you said. Theyapos;d appraise the little thing you made, made up, whichever, and they count up their worth. Worth in what you think their worth is. There is always this fear, a childhood anxiety, of being misrepresented, misread. Under-over-valued. And thatapos;s what make them talk to you. Or not want to. Not because of you but because of what you said."

"donapos;t you ever have anything nice to say."

"not to you. No. Not likely. I already get what i want from you."

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