The Stars and the Cookie Jar

I was talking to a young woman recently -- the age I'm still inclined to call, in my head, a girl, meaning younger than me -- and when she spoke, the effect was of an Emily Dickinson poem on speed. Her thoughts--seemed interrupted--by a stream of emdashes-- as if she continually--had to breathe--before she was allowed--to say what came next.

(I don't mean to be cruel with that effect; indeed, I splashily overuse emdashes in my own writing and I tend to leave 'em if an author wants 'em when I edit. I just don't know how else to express it in print.)

It wasn't a stammer, and she was articulate at some times and not others. It wasn't a seeming nonneurotypicality cropping up, I didn't think.

"The minute I say something--I've thought--that was so stupid, and--I could have said it better."

Aside from being younger, she was of a similar, maybe superior, educational and socieoeconomic background. She had no reason to be intimidated by me. I just wanted to say honey, I know, and give her a hug.