Three Stories
When I think of Sally, I think of the dilapidated house we shared on Arthur’s Hill. The two men rented the attic rooms. Sally and I lived on the first floor. The ginger cat was at home everywhere. Sally worked part-time as an art teacher. I was still a student. We spent entire days together in that house. I liked observing Sally. She had something placid, quaintly beatific to her features, something more ancient than her twenty-five years: an air of grave amusement softly haunting her round, still-childish face. She wore shawls and big, extraordinary dresses. Like a gypsy. When my mother visited, she said: This girl has a very old soul.
Three microfictions by Elodie A. Roy.