Tania slurps her cheap beer and uncrosses her legs,
exposing fresh bruises from the soup factory.
She outlines them in marker and draws
a smiley face on one located on her right thigh.
These bruises tell me that my life is composed
almost entirely of bad decisions, she says,
replacing the cap on the marker. I ask how
a decision could form such a perfect,
purple circle. Between swallowing
beer and peering into the rain,
she burps. I can't say, but--
I mean, do you want
to have ***? Later on
I drive her to the
hospital and I visit
a therapist. For
a few months.