Invisible Letters 

C'est un ballet bizarre, n'est-ce pas ? La façon dont nous dansons tous les uns autour des autres, prétendant que nous ne jugeons pas constamment, que nous n'observons pas constamment. Vous, le gardien inébranlable du savoir poussiéreux. Moi, l'anomalie gênante dans votre univers parfaitement ordonné. Ne vous inquiétez pas, je ne mords pas... sauf si je m'ennuie vraiment. Et s’ennuyer avec quelqu’un est, à mon avis, le pire péché de tous.

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.*

Mélissa Elliot

Mélissa Elliot

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