They are sitting on the desk. Silver and gold. And there are pliers there too.
“Hey,” Jillian says. “Pass the paperclips.” She holds out a hand.
I have to hand one over to her.
She takes it and begins to bend it with the pliers. It twists until it doesn’t hold itself any more. Until it’s useless as a paper holding clip.
Until it’s some thing brilliant and beautiful, like all the other fucked up pieces of metal she’s putting together to make a neck lace with.
“Hey,” Jillian says, “thanks.”
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