Claire Annette

October 18, 2008
I know a dainty lady who never drinks a drop of water. A lady who never consumes any food at all. A lady who stands silently in the corner of my room every weekend, and travels with me to school every Monday where she sits in a small cubby in one of the classrooms, waiting for me to come back. She always watches me without moving. Her pale face is blank, bland, and emotionless. Her body is long and slender. Her non-existent legs are hidden beneath the black skirt she calls a “bell.” Beautiful. Calm. Sumptuous.

I examine her dress. It is mostly black with silver designs dancing across her torso like delicate little ballerinas. There are also tiny holes the size of finger pads down her back. When you glance at the holes, you see dark, deep emptiness: her inner organs. They make you wonder what life would be like if you were hollow.

The dainty lady is a small creature. She is only about two feet tall. Her waist is a little over and inch wide, but the dainty lady is not starved. She lives off the music she sings, taking in each notes as if it were a savory delicacy. She creates delectable music to absorb when she is comfortable, and when she is tired; she creates horrible high-pitched squeaks that echo throughout the walls of my room. Those dreadful sounds always seem to laugh at me as I try to stop them from bouncing off my furniture and chase them out my door.

The dainty lady loves to sing. When I prepare the music for her to sing and my desk, the lady smiles and prepares to be heard. Smiling and singing, and enjoying what she does. I take a deep breath, she takes a deep breath, and we begin to organize a mass of notes into a song. She laughs the whole time, glad to be singing once again. I laugh too. Glad to be in such good company.

The dainty lady is different. She can be divided into five pieces, placed in to a small black case, and left in a cabinet until tomorrow, and yet she will still sing beautifully. Sweet. Soft. Perfect. Often, the lady sings with other ladies with qualities very close to her own. Often, the lady sings counter melodies with extremely different creatures. Often, the lady sings alone with my breath surging through the lungs she doesn’t have, coming from her in a sweet melody.

The dainty lady is not unlike what you have seen. The dainty lady is not unlike what you have heard. The dainty lady is someone you have known all along; you just didn’t bother to truly meet her. The dainty lady is a normal being. At least, I know that Claire Annette is just as normal as you and I. Whatever normal is.

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