Smart and beautiful. Vivacious and quirky. Selling apples stuffed with razor blades. Trying to make ends meet. Always on the go. Sidestepping the dream. Listening to Mozart.

She’d have to stop doing that, listening to Mozart. He gave her bum steers. Like the apples and razor blades. No one ever complained tho. No one found her out. Why was that? What did Mozart know that she didn’t? Should she become his child bride? Could she learn to cook and sew? Learn piano?

She was getting ahead of herself. It might all be a dream. Where did she meet Mozart anyway? On the tram? In a bomb shelter? What was he doing here, wrenched so far out of time?

She shared this with no one. She shared nothing with no one. No one was a good listener. She stayed home alone nights. Ate apples, made squiggles on her body with razor blades. Called out for pizza. Listened to Mozart.

Who was it told her she was smart? Beautiful? Vivacious? No one said she was quirky, she thought that one up on her own. She wasn’t above self-criticism. Or below it.

Maybe it was time to put her foot down. Take control. Get a job, go out for drinks with the girls from the office or with total strangers. Yes, total strangers. Make new friends. Pretend it all never happened instead of pretending it did.

She needed to calm down. Herb tea with lemon. Then something would pop into her head that would make everything ring clear as a bell.

She heard a bell. It was the doorbell. She straightened her hair in the mirror and pulled her robe around her. She opened the door and there stood the pizza man.

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