The board turned black. True black. The black of deep water, of obsidian, of a sleep without dreams. She leaned her forehead against its cool, empty surface and breathed.
She didn't stop. Her arm ached, but the ache was a prayer. Each stroke was a small death: the lover who'd handled her like a half-read book, the debt that whispered her name in the dark, the quiet agreement to shrink herself so others could feel tall. clean slate by mugwump
She set down the cloth. Picked up the chalk. The board turned black
She held the damp cloth, cold in her fist. cold in her fist.