# Her window looked out on a backyard more supple and lean than a golf course. Hydrangeas were fading gracefully towards death in mulched beds along the gently contoured boundaries between close-cropped grass and deciduous woods. Looking out this window, you wouldn’t know that everywhere for miles around were corn and beans and gas stations and the run-down stubble of light industry. This was, in every sense of the word, an enclave. Pink curtains quivered in the late morning breeze. Mary was saying something with her mouth full. She stopped and turned around so fast that Gwen almost collided with her. Close the door! Gwen did as she was told. Immediately there was a scratching and a whining. Oh for fuck’s sake. Should I let him in? Sure, whatever. Stupid mutt. Gwen opened the door just wide enough to permit Bozo’s scraggly frame to wiggle through, then closed it again. The dog still had the nubbly bone, and he took it immediately up onto the lower bunk (why did Mary need ::bunk beds:: for just herself?), spun around twice, and sat down staring out at the rest of the room in perfect contentment, not chewing, just staring, seeming mercifully oblivious to the ridiculous pink bows Mary’s mother had affixed to his twitchy little ears. She always wanted a girl, Mary explained, shaking her head in disgust. What did you want to show me? Gwen asked finally. Dude, check it out. Mary came up close, closer than personal space usually allows, and she smelled good, shampoo mixed with cooled sweat, intermingling with the decomposition of the autumnal patch of woods outside. She rolled up the black sleeve of her ::sweatshirt::. Underneath was a gauzy, lacy black sleeve, obscuring a pattern of dark red. She pushed up that sleeve too, and Gwen felt foolish for almost letting out a gasp when she saw that the pattern was dried blood, lacerations scabbing over. Not only that, it was words. It said, > Tomorrow you’ll > see what you’ve > broken and torn > tonight No-one said anything. Mary was standing there, breathing like a horse. Gwen stared at the carefully inscribed wounds. They were beautiful and horrible, artistic and degenerate. Can I—? Go ahead. Gwen traced her fingertip lightly, just as she had with the undergarment earlier. It was almost the same, rough against silky. She wanted to ask why, but sensed that it would be a stupid, pointless question. She didn’t want to be the one who just said stuff like why. There was a noise in the hallway that broke the spell. Mary pulled her arm away and slid her sleeves back down. She waved her black-painted fingernails in the air like a magician. That’s the first installment, she said. You want an egg roll? Gwen realized she was fucking famished. Mary put on spidery, labyrinthine, instrumental music while they ate. Again, Gwen didn’t feel like being the one who said what is this, so she just let it surround her and interweave the spaces around and between them. ::The curtains moved again, and Gwen wondered why they were pink. Nothing else about her friend was pink.:: Sweetie? Mary’s mom called, her voice intrusively close through the closed door. Mary didn’t answer, and Gwen sat awkwardly, feeling inadvertently sneaky. Sweetie, I’m going to meet your father for lunch, okay? Be good. I’ll be back in a little bit. They listened to the footfalls retreating, then changing tempo to go down the stairs. The music stopped. *Be,* Mary said slowly, mysteriously, turning her head with dramatic slowness to face Gwen, so they were nose to nose, close-up close, like two actors on screen talking so close they had to be able to smell each other’s breaths, see each other’s pores, *good.*