Sunday morning writing warm-up: She doesn't like it when the food sticks to the plate. It reminds her of aging and dying and the in-between stages of the two. She hears herself sigh again, her body's way of fending off boredom. The TV flickers in the corner. A man wearing a friendly blue tie shines a golden smile. She dreams of resting her head on his halfway hairy chest, while his heart, beating steadily, lulls her into safe sleep. Heavy guitar wails from the basement. It's 7 pm on Thursday. Her twin brother and his friends - inspired by the great hair bands of the early eighties - attempt to obliterate shyness. She wishes she too were brave, a tyrant, someone willing to tell people off, just because. Like the old woman who hangs out on the corner of Sand and Urvine selling wilted flowers to catatonic drivers. Or the neighbor who leaves his smoked cigarettes burning rather than stomping them out. Or the grocery clerk who always wears her hair in sideways braids. She'd tell them.

In the mirror, she barks and growls.