A conversation with Sasha isn’t just that.  She doesn’t listen, not in the strictest sense.  She collects.

She finds your voice, your tics, that way you play with your hair and your tendency to talk out of the side of your mouth, your fascination with puppetry, your Uncle Ethan, and she captures them, makes them hers, like little pieces of stained glass.

Then she puts you on her shelf, and she dusts you twice a week, and when guests come by, she points at you and tells them where you’ve been.

She wonders, sometimes, what her collection says about her.


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