by Rachael Levitt

There were always things for her to fold. She collapsed the bills on the counter to tiny shapes as we chatted. Napkin edges turned into triangles, then to smaller squares while we ate. On the bus, it was the hem of her dress and the lip of her sock, her fingers never still as she spoke, always straightening, neatening, creating layers of pleats. Over coffee in the layered rays of weak sunshine, I asked if she was okay. Her face flushed, gradient pink to red, hands clasped in her lap as she looked out the window, and she tucked her legs under herself.

Rachael Levitt has an MFA in Creative Writing from Chatham University. Her work has been published in the Red Clay Review, Weave Magazine, and the anthology The Places We’ve Been: A Field Report From Travelers Under 35. She lives and writes in Los Angeles.