Black Soul

“It's why my friends don't like her. There's nothing wrong with her, there's just something that isn't right. I think she's a psychological case.”

This was tea talk, which I partook silently across the table.

“She does such odd things.”

I didn't really mind the odd things. I didn't. She was quiet and sort of desperate to please. She changed her opinions to settle arguments. She was lost in worlds we couldn't see. She licked the rims of the cups she drank from, when lost in thought. She wore rings on every finger and had a tiny tree in a glass vial around her neck. She grew bonsai on the edge of the balcony, and ate spoonfuls of peanut butter. She slept at the wrong end of the bed and pulled her cat around by the scruff like a rag doll.

“It's like this pattern. She starts hanging out with your friends. They get on well. Next thing they like her more then you.”

It was true. She knew more of my friends' business then I did. She sat with them at 2am, tapping keys to know their problems. They write me emails, ‘She's such a lovely girl.'

“I wish she wouldn't,” she said, topping up the tea cup.

Sometimes she drives me mad. Crawling up the wall and retreating under the desk from her letters that go on forever. She was so pliable and she slid in to my life in this slot that I never knew was waiting for her gemstone green nails and her dirty shoes, and her glistening smile and her poetry. It was like she'd squeezed into the selection of titles on my bookcase.


words: Elle Driscoll, Australia (captured)
photo: Bart Azare, Belgium (flickr gallery)


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