I just have a sense of wanting her to think better of me than I do of myself. Wonder why that is.
She is a woman, you see, you might say, of a certain (yet very non-stuffy) decorum.
She's the one who once cut her hair off much, shocking us, and when we protested to that effect, said no, it had been liberating!, her identity had been all caught up in her hair, and I (yes, I) should try it myself, that last part punctuated by her parting mine via one slow fingernail right down the back of my head, as I sat cross-legged with the others in the hallway.
I can still feel her flipping the left side to the left, the right to the right, as she stood above me, liberating!, and a tingle went dancing down the back of my neck, and all the way down my spine to the floor.