The sand remains in my pockets weeks after I collected that pink quartz, grains wedge under my nails, shards burrowing as if they could find an ocean in there. Cleaning it all out, I find a packet in my purse from last week’s half-price sushi, soy sauce dark as ink. It’ll live in the drawer with the others until I change apartments. You can’t catch fireflies or pick blackberries in white gloves so I taught my dog to bury my pair in the backyard. I learned to curse, read upside down, sew enough to patch and hide the stains on all my shirts. I can roll a condom but lack the patience and polite smile of a young lady, my eyebrows give me away. My mom’s attention to counted cross stitch wasn’t passed down by chromosome, I laugh like her but louder. My hips lead when I dance, my eyes closed and drowning. I never managed to finish a Jane Austen novel, but I pay attention to the fleur-de-lis wallpaper pattern, thrill to see someone waiting on a stump, dress still wet from the lake, coming home to mother.