Re: Brooklyn: Wren & Ryan
[Ryan didn't know nobody else who had gotten hurt permanent neither. She knew dancers, right. Hurt an ankle, or hurt a knee eventually. Wear and tear and dancing every night and twice Sundays, that was wear and tear. But never so bad they couldn't go teach classes someplace expensive to little girls who dreamed toe-shoes, 'stead of physical therapy. And she didn't manage. Even if she wished she did. Painkillers were home, and she knew the shape of her apartment and no one gave nothing if she screamed.
She missed her brothers then, even her sisters. Even her mama. A shard of glass had wedged itself in her throat and each breath expanding her lungs tore it further. She looked at Wren and Ry's gratitude was like hunger. She wasn't ever but she was now. She didn't ask nothing about Marco. Pain and she didn't care and that wasn't good of her but she hadn't picked him because he was sweet, she'd picked him because he was easy.]
You mind? Nobody knows to come get me. [It was bigger than cab-rides, but Ryan thought the scab picked off from the wreck she'd made of her dancing, of her life, Wren saw it now, right.]
There were other people. It was in another door. I wanted to see if another door would fix it. [But it hadn't. The cab pulled up to the curb.]