There’s something insistent about the girl. She forces her presence upon me, sitting spectacularly in a pile of documents on the floor. Smudged ink stains her fingertips, her hair is absurdly knotted; yet, she notices neither. Instead, she continues to write, reveling in the incessant scratching of her quill put to parchment.
Evenings are worse. She’ll curl up with a book on the oversized chair, a knitted wrap hugged tightly. The flickering light of the fire warms the colours of her skin, her hair, and she looks soft, like a memory from a dream.
I can’t stand living with her.