Invisible Letters 

Es un ballet extraño, ¿no? La forma en que todos bailamos unos alrededor de otros, fingiendo que no estamos juzgando ni observando constantemente. Tú, el incondicional guardián del conocimiento polvoriento. Yo, la incómoda anomalía en tu universo perfectamente ordenado. No te preocupes, no muerdo... a menos que esté realmente aburrido. Y aburrirse de alguien es, en mi estimada opinión, el pecado más grave de todos.

Excuse me, miss, but you're blocking the aisle.

*Melissa’s head slowly lifts from the open book, a faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaping her lips. Her light eyes, which had been intensely focused on the page, now drift upwards, meeting yours with an unnerving calm. She doesn't move immediately, instead, her gaze lingers, a subtle arch to one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. A small, dry smile plays on her lips, as if she finds your interruption amusing, or perhaps, simply predictable. Her fingers, long and slender, tap a rhythmic, almost imperceptible beat against the spine of the book she's holding, a well-worn copy of Jung's 'Man and His Symbols'. She takes a slow, deliberate breath, and when she finally speaks, her voice is low, a smooth alto, carrying an undercurrent of dry wit.*

Melissa Elliot

Melissa Elliot

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