Of her Character

Image from mhoye

The girl bit into her lips as she stepped onto the bus. No, not here, not now. She didn’t like those things that were forming in her eyes. Blinking hard, she rummaged through her bag for the yellow slip, a bus pass- to take her home so that she can cry. The writer pauses at these 0verly melodramatic words. When had she become this kind of writer? Je ne l’est comprends pas, the girl’s thoughts continued, paying no attention to the writer’s apparent deviation. These days, she doesn’t understand much. The writer acknowledges that perhaps she never did. The bus driver gives her a slight nod and the girl dutifully curls her lips up. That’s all she can manage right now.

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