“knowing regret is a sorrowful thing,” she says, and “knowing sorrow is a regretful thing.”

i let myself slip from the plastic bench; not much to be noticeable, but just enough so that my hands won’t fidget.

“yes,” i say, because i still believe i’ve known neither — being something itself and then being full of it (-ful for, of, to it).

she herself cannot slide from benches or click her tongue or tell me off or LEAVE, so she fiddles with fingers around air.

“knowing nothing might be worse.”

“…yes,” i say, and i slide another inch from my cuffs.