She came in during the end of my dream. It wasn’t her, the one that I drew for almost two years. No, it was someone else. A smaller woman, quieter, less-educated, still, accepting, kind, I think. We sat her down on the sofa, the other women and I, moved the box-cum-coffee table so that there was room for her feet. I noticed the skin on her bare legs were discoloured, patched with liver spots and a few bruises. She wore a summer dress, patterned and colourful. Self-contained, she sat quietly, giving no explanation as to why she had come. And we asked for none.
