July 1, 2013
She refuses to drink
out of a dark coffee cup where she can’t see the bottom nor eat off of a plate
other than white. Off-white is even a remarkable deviation. I feel a bit badly
writing about her, as though she will suffer and break apart into dust, knowing
that everyone is aware of her secret obsessions. I reveal these things to you
in confidence.
Everything about her is
exact, like a perfectly square box. Accurate movements, attire, meals and
speech are deliberate and crisp like fine beads of water falling delicately
from a leaf of lettuce, firmly planted in the fumy soil. She is silent and
observant most of the time, catching those inappropriate phrases, common street
language that offends her and stores it away for future judgment. Stiff and
unyielding when you hug her, the eyes reveal guarded honesty and sincere warmth,
love and affection she cannot otherwise demonstrate.
I love her, cherish her
being, yet don’t fully comprehend the exactness of her fixations, inability to
engage in unsuitable thoughts, let alone actions. One day I hope she can laugh
until milk comes out of her nose. Yet, I am not holding my breath.
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