She knows that I draw her. Yesterday I saw her smiling about it. She never asks to see them. And I’m glad. She is tricky for me to capture, I think it’s her fragility, shown in the pinkness of her face, the sometimes greasiness of her and the delicacy of her small body. I watch her eat her croissant, drink her coffee, read her phone before settling down to make her roll-ups for when the coming day. I like her. He told me that she asked him (when I’d gone to the toilet) if I’d had an accident. I was touched by her interest. I like her. Are we (am I) beginning to belong?
