she appeared in a gust of wind, scanning the room and sitting down in a mess of fabric. the tables were small, cigarette smoke blew in from the people sitting outside, and unmemorable french songs whirled around us. she did not look at the waiter when the waiter greeted her, and she requested a menu even though there were none. when he returned with her coffee, she criticized the cup. when he brought her water, she turned it down.
the air at the back of her throat vacillated and was never sure, you see. it was an uncertain air, twisting around the tonsils, several degrees cooler than the ambient air, cooler than the outside air, as though the skin at the back of her throat had its own tendrils shifting her breath around. this is how she remained in a state of unrest: with her voice cold to the world, her screams frozen midway out, her icy tone chilling the people around her.
i wanted to apologise to every person who ever had to speak to her or had to watch her talk.
i wondered if in isolation she kept the same airs, or if she put her chin down with a sigh.
i wondered, and then i looked away.