I saw her in that moment, a dull résumé of obscurity and omission. Her hair cut short by dull blades, bourboned coffee cup on an uneven picnic table, an overturned diaper bag by her feet, spilling out cigarettes and Tic Tacs and dollar store lube. There were healing razor lines on her forearms, and scrawls on her thigh, a graffiti’d fa-la of punk and blue ink coiling on her calf, twining down to her ankle. A map of sorts, for the illiterate or lazy, those too incurious to ask. She was still a work in progress, she might have said, with freckles on her nose that went deeper than just skin, but no one asked about the girl she was. They saw those lines and spirals, sensual scribbles that meant something to someone, and they thought they had her figured out. The lines were a rough sketch of her life; esoteric more than erotic, really, but no one wanted to translate the scripture. I wanted to know, but I would never ask, and she would never tell.