There's something insistent about the girl. She forces her presence upon me, sitting spectacularly in a pile of documents on the floor of our Common Room, her robes splayed across the carpet. Smudged ink stains her fingertips, her hair is absurdly knotted; yet she notices neither. Instead, she continues to write, reveling in the incessant scratching of her quill put to parchment.
Occasionally, she'll stretch, raising her arms backwards, twisting sideways. It's in these moemnts that I forget to breathe, watching her blouse shift and pull across her chest and abdomen. Then it's over, and she's returned to position, eyes trained firmly on the page, never noticing the blue tint of my skin.
Evenings are often worse. She'll curl up with a book on the oversized chair, a knitted wrap pulled around her. The flickering light of the fire warms the colors of her skin, her hair, and she looks soft, like a memory from a dream.
I can't stand living with her.