She has her ankles crossed and her hands in her lap like a
real old lady in a pencil skirt, with her hair in a bun and just a little bit
of lipstick. But she is fooling you, because really she is barely out of her
teens, and probably thinking about bunnies and face-paint. She fools you all
day long, with a high school diploma that they gave her when she was sixteen,
and a couple of novels stacked up on the shelf. She has written ten, but she
hates seven of them, and the other three are not that great either. She will find
something she loves one day and then maybe the girl will stop trying to write music.
She fools you into thinking she is really smart, but the girl is made stupid by her own love and hate. She is Intelligent,
sure, but she would not know how to let you know that, would she? Everything she
says has to be eaten by a babel fish, because even when you think you know
what she means, you probably do not.
At home, you are more likely to see her more like herself,
in a red robe and nothing but, her hair is all down and it dangles everywhere.
It is thick and dark and you suddenly believe that maybe she really is Algonquin, even
if her eyes look like white-girl eyes. Does the soul have a color? Her soul is magenta.
She is looking at the page with her real eyes, while her third eyes spies on you,
and the tarot cards start talking to her and she talks back. At home, her
ankles are not crossed and her hands are probably touching you, if they are not
composing another novel that she might hate the second it is finished.
Finally she looks up, bites her lower lip and inhales, “What do you think?”
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