She will stain her lips and wear a dress fit for another time. You will see her, and she will be fixed on a yellowing book. Not fumbling with her considerable necklace as she reads. Not turning the pages because she's studying you and the text and the shape and sound of the room.
A Quietess. Her speech will be soft when you ask if she's using the chair across from her desk. She is not. You might bring it to another spot and angle it to watch the woman with the book, face matte and smooth, kindly bright. And she will return, looking for roots, mind crawling amongst the rot in the pulp.
A Quietess. Her speech will be soft when you ask if she's using the chair across from her desk. She is not. You might bring it to another spot and angle it to watch the woman with the book, face matte and smooth, kindly bright. And she will return, looking for roots, mind crawling amongst the rot in the pulp.
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