she always wears blue.

She sits beside me with her hair tied in a bun. Dirty blonde frizzy strands fall out of the loose elastic. Her shirt is mustard yellow and she presses on the same keyboard as me but with a little more intensity, like she's frantically searchying for confidential records. She breaths in loud and exhales with an exasperated tone. I can only see her at the corner of my eye, and she's already got her hand to her head as if the computer is about to blow, she doesn't even have a window open. There's a stench coming from this end of the room ... she's the only one at that end of the room. It's a stale coffee smell, and rotten milk. Does milk rot? Her hand are like cursive letters difficult and curved, hard to understand. I cannot see her eyes, bear me the sanity.


Sincerely,
Kyla