I placed a hand gently on the counter
It was made of some dark wood, mahogany or
oak. She would've known, and if she'd told me,
I would've remembered. Maybe.
I wandered to the circle table,
It was made of glass, which was stupid and
unnecessarily odd. But she liked that.
She liked being able to see my legs.
It was a single sheet. It lay perfectly flat.
I wanted it to be crinkled, like she'd clenched the paper as she wrote.
But it was perfect. And white. One smudge.
She'd written me a mile, twisted and
cut into her jagged writing. The words were square to start,
Growing more circular with every letter. She had signed,
with her stupid S that looked like an f.