girl, interrupted

She finds reasons to avoid reading her novel. Constantly she picks it up, reads a line or two and places it back on her leatherette handbag with the relief snakeskin pattern marked out by grease stains. Gabriel Garcia Marque one hundred years of solitude is written on its cover. She attempts to look interested as she skims over a story that skims over a family skimming through time.

With her topcoat buttoned high and her dry straw hair doing their best to cascade over her shoulders; there is but a glimpse of a victorian blouse.

She looks intensely at the route map above my head. Then, with a sigh, heads back to dusty lands and tiresome generations.

She has a pointy face. All features lean forwards in a constant hasty distain. Her engagement ring looks homemade.

I wonder if anyone will ever notice me writing about them like this.