My attention hastily flew from her red and grey rubber rain boots to her satin black hair, which she strategically placed behind one ear.
Bite marks saturate the blue plastic cap to a pen she has yet to relieve from her fiddling fingers.
Her glance remains forward but her attention lies on an invisible notion floating freely about her pupils.
Unfit for a setting so imprisoning as an organized professors lair, she blinks often recomposing her thoughts to run parallel to the mildly set expectations.
Hindered by the ticking metronome hung off-centered above the door, her mind habitually keeping record of its hand's movements; cautiously her mind resigns.
I follow her through the maze of classmates as she jumps from stone to stone in an unkempt garden, filled only of dying, drying shrubs.
She skips to a beat unfamiliar to observers and hums as though nobody is listening.
Unfortunately, nobody is.
Tune and rhythm are constant and beautiful, something foreign to my ears. Yet it's serene amongst the havoc and ignorant cries of passersby.
The natural graces of a ballerina inhabit her, causing her locks to sway in a way I've never since seen.
Her dry rubber boots lift her onto a branch of a willow, now impairing my view of the pensive expressions, once contagious.
Regrettably, I unintentionally escape my whimsical dreamland and turn, yet go on writing about the soul in rubber boots.
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