Temple doesn't expect a heartfelt confession, truly; those aren't the sort of guts that end up on the table during a dinner date. They're squirreled and hoarded away for those private moments with just you, where no one else can feast on any of that pain you so kept for yourself.

"Where I'm from, you can't actually taste the air for all the chemicals in it. The dyes, you know. For blue jeans and wools and yarn." She picks at a leaf. "I used to not notice. Now whenever I go back there I can hardly breathe at all."