long ways, across the numbers. She tried to cut them in half. She didn’t want someone to piece it back together and go on a spending spree. But there wasn’t anything left on this one anyway. She cut the other way now and reduced the card to little bits of plastic confetti. There was a little computer chip in this one too, and it fell apart at her scissors, crunchy tiny bits of metal and who knows what else.
She had been waiting to cut this one for a long time. After Robert left and after they let her go at the restaurant. But things weren’t so dramatic. She still had her apartment. She still had Indy. She still had her books. She had taken to stacking them everywhere there was a flat surface. Poetry on the fridge gathering dust. Short story collections on the counter tops and kitchen table. Agatha Christie had the coffee table all to herself. Indy liked to fall asleep on the books on the TV. Self-help and biographies.
She was writing again, too. She found a typewriter at the Salvation Army. She filled pages with her thoughts. Almost a diary, but not really.
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