And just like that, she took a step onto the bridge he’d made with his gentle question
The colors streak across the canvas. Aviva takes more paint on her brush, daubs it on. Finally, after a long day at the office, she’s here at her bedroom desk, getting it onto paper. Yesterday’s date. What she’d said.
Swish, swirl, full whirl. A storm takes shape in front of her. Within her.
She’d told Ari. About what Mom had done, how she’d taken every penny that could possibly be coming to her — and then some — how she’d manipulated the system, how truth could be a pliant thing in her hands, stretching like putty, changing shapes. Aviva had explained how that’s why she herself couldn’t bear to take from any organizations, how she couldn’t bring herself to use them. As though refraining could be an atonement of sorts.
How did it go from awkward small talk to telling him about Mom?
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