my prose self finally split from the rest
It’s not a complete identity since I’ve never been able to produce significant prose.
But feel free to look on.
It was the night before the first day of the Christmas holiday that I realized PBH C could not hold up on its own. My parents had won a holiday to Istanbul on some radio program, so I would stay in Geafalming rather than take the drive home to Norfolk. I knew this was not in my best interest, but I was guiltily glad to have more time inside my own head.
“Merry Christmas, Lyss,” Rosie said, leaning into my doorway and giving me a kiss on the cheek goodbye before she headed home to Haworth with a flourish of her thick knit scarf.
