She walked slowly and carefully, but obviously limping. At the time I didn’t know, but she had broken a bone in her foot. She walked along, her nose barely visible above the pile of books in her arms.
She made quite a bit of noise as she moved because her bag was overflowing with a cheap pencil case full of expensive pencils. That actually describes her I think. Cheap wrapping, not very pretty, but expensive inside- a wonderful personality. I only knew because I knew of her. Everyone did. She was effervescent.
I walked behind her in the hall and finally, in a cascade of whirling pages and colour, one of her books fell. She leaned over and went to pick it up. I walked forward.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I think I got it,” she said, smiling. I want you to know that I didn’t love her. We didn’t fall in love and live the rest of our lives together. She just picked up the book, struggling with all her things and continued on. I didn’t write this out of love. It’s just a lovely image.