Something most people don’t know about me is that I will keep a little bit of them when we part ways. I’m realizing that sounds somewhat concerning, but I don’t mean it to be. I just love humans. I think it’s part of the reason I write. A need to catalog all the specimens and their quirks. I can still remember how one of my first bosses used to stand with both of his hands folded into the small of his back while he surveyed the tiny gas station he owned like it was a kingdom. I hold onto the look of surprise on my favorite teacher’s face the time I caught her smoking backstage at a one-act play competition. She was nervous we would lose and we did. Maybe she smoked a whole carton when she arrived home. The point is, every interaction I have with another person is fascinating to me. I take them all home with me and add them to my scrap basket of memories. When I am an old woman—way too soon—I will have them all to keep me company. Until then, I will use them in my favorite way to cope with this messy life—throwing words against the wall and seeing what sticks.