She was cardamom and corduroy. Her cheeks, aged burgundy staining parchment skin, stretched like the silence that lingers a little too long in close quarters. She was accustomed to crossing her knees in foyers, quietting her unholy fingers—prone to flutter across dusted sunlight—in parlors and settees, pews and other wooden boxes. She guarded against pursing her lips, lest she reveal irony or wit, the things that they feared the most, the things that they tried to beat out of her with corsets and mentholated fists. She recalled the sound of her bare feet slapping most unladylike against the pavement when they promised to rid her of her shame, when the only azaleas she could see through the brine were out of reach. There were no gentlemen who could read her handwriting. Maidenhood was bitter, but preferable, she concluded, though her teeth would soon grow jagged from the taste of it.
(Source: cordeliagable)
