I remember what's going on. For three hours I watch her watching Paul. I watch the black fabric of her shirt move against her back as she breathes and stares up at Paul. Her arms are folded across her, resting in her lap. Her right thumbnail painted silver sticks out from under her left arm.
People come and go.
I can feel this without asking her anything. I want to count the tiny whispers of hairs tangled in the cord of a necklace on the back of her neck. I want to find the traces if dried oil paint that would sew her to me, that would make us sisters or lovers in this world too. All of this would make me want to touch that soft still skin, though, and I cannot do that. Not while she's with him.