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July 12, 2005
Memo
She liked the way the Professor smelled, an odd mixture of melon and ginger, neither scent overwhelming the other, and she enjoyed watching him in a dispute, he had such a desperate need to win and his semantic wrigglings were endlessly surprising. With Memo you were either on the inside or the outside, and the Professor was definitely on the inside. She enjoyed the his company, although he misunderstood why, and it tickled her when that happened, when he missed the point.
Tonight the Professor and the King were really going at it, and she sat across the table from them, listening to the controversy take form and grow, watching and listening, her eyes darting like birds. She would absently sip from her bottle from time to time. Her work at the helium lab kept her busy most nights, so when she could break free and spend an evening at George's she made the most of it.
Her hair was brown, thin, and straight and she kept it cut short, just above her collar. Some women keep their necks hidden, but not Memo, she liked to leave her throat exposed. But she always kept her arms covered.
Her skin was fair and she freckled in the summer. She never wore much makeup, but always some. The skin on her face had a curious pigment pattern, like a vague splash of coffee, like the map of Greece. It was more apparent in the summer or when she was upset, and it made men speculate, fruitlessly. Mostly.
She kept a small pad of paper and a pen on the table in front of her. She could write very fast, and she had exquisite handwriting.
She had to. Since she was six she had been mute.
That night Memo sipped her beer and tried to remember everything she knew about Pandora.
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posted by matthew at 06:02 PM