I am irked.

And so not in the best frame of mind to be writing.

Death, be not proud.

Pride is a strange thing.

What would you think, if you knew of my reliance on opiates? Amphetamines, actually, and no reliance that would be considered one. A dalliance, refreshed every few months at best. Irked.

I am irked.

Idealised Switchpoint.

She is a long, thin pale thing. Etiolated. She smiles too much, and her teeth are too yellow, and she looks like a child, which disturbs me. Little half-Lolita, with her blood red hair and dark eyes. She's somewhat vampiric, sitting quietly in corners until there's a burst of energy, always sweeping into rooms in dark colours, browns, blues, greens and most often black. Always black. She is younger than my children, she could be my daughter, and so it disturbs me to feel for her. I imagine that my feelings are maternal in nature; I want to protect her. I want to wrap her up from the world and show her things and be her friend. In the morning light she seems to glow, though I know it's just the wan sun and her skin acting together to beam out white light. It's not her fault she's seductive. I know that no mothers feel quite the same as I do now. I keep away as much as possible, because this isn't how it's meant to be, but she seems to home towards me. She floats around after the day is done, she asks my opinion, she smiles on me indulgently. I show her lists and figures, and explain. She nods. I catch scents of sprayed deodorant and the plastic smell of makeup, and wafts of coffee, and her clean hair. She's large boned, like me, but she is actually bony, as opposed to masculine. Or maybe she is masculine and bony, but it's her masculine way of stalking about and pulling herself up tall that makes her attractive. I know I walk like a carthorse. I am as tall as she is, in my heels, and yet she seems to be able to cover ground in an instant, with her groundkeepers lope. The youths catcall behind her back, but never quite to her face; she seems impervious. Slights about her clothing, with regard to Oxfam, do not perturb her. I form suppositions that hurting her would involve delving deeper, or into another area. I am sure that whatever her weak point is, it won't be sartorial. The children know that she is attractive, and this in itself seems to give her an unfair status advantage, as if comments from her carry more weight. She isn't like the slight, mousy women, no tiny thing, and yet she's not formed in the mould of the well-dressed, busty women. Dressing for their figure, something that always seems to elude me. I know the rules, but I can't quite play the game. She inhabits a ground in between; slim and pale, looking as if she's jointed together, but low tones and forceful presence that make her present. Her clothes are unembarrassed. And she will not be embarrassed, either. I suppose that in many ways, she is unfathomable, and she is old, for her years.