And there was too a method to her madness, a process of sealing the distance with wax, the distance between her separate identities, this, that, ranging from submissive to stubborn, built upon choices made, choices turned down like the tilt of her eyes which confirmed a smile because, now, she grinned, then, her mouth laughed as the heat billowed inside her head, finally, this, over, and was this a new feeling, oh yes, how could his words, these circumstances, her fears, gather together relief, disappointment, no more, no more, but a flutter in the chest, a broken pulse, don’t forget, can’t forget, breaching new territory like a spoon breaking the surface of crème brûlée, crackle, creamy innocence rising to meet the ripe new world, so fresh, so flawed, and she watched the arch of her friend’s brows, there, beside her, to consider it art, to gaze at the paradox and recognise its value, how can she do that, she feels burning behind her cheeks and wishes away her forgetfulness, cannot forget, will not forget, their lips kiss the smoke, remember, this, that, his words, his frown, and then the comfort of her friend, hands braced against the table, bony white wrists ready to snap, as she smiles, she checks in the mirror, fake smile, now real, breaking the skin by her eyes, crinkling like his, soft like hers, and a whisper for all her identities, they gather the insecurities, the jealousies, the heartaches, and pour it all into one identity, only, so that the rest can laugh and smile, a real smile, this time, with the eyes.