She sat down at eight. Somewhere between the second sentence and whenever she next looked up, her peripheral vision stopped reporting. The argument wrote itself — not easy, exactly, but direct, each sentence demanding the next. She wasn't choosing words. She was seeing where the thought wanted to go and letting her hands follow. The coffee went cold. A train passed. She would remember neither. When she finally surfaced it was because she'd run out of sentence and the clock said one-fifteen.
