At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. ‘What can I do, miss?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ cried Melusine. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. Moments are ages now.
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