It started with her, with the colour of her hair, I think.

The colour of milk – creamy white, like the top of

the pail.  She wrote with an accent, told her story in

her own words.  Northern.  Bold. Bright as butter.

You’d like it – you’d say the narrative voice was

compelling, or something like that – but you’d mean

that she reminded you a little of yourself.  Of the

fight you’ve had to make your own words heard.

She’s a brave little thing, from what I can

remember.  Not an easy life.  You’ve always liked those

stories.  The ones in which the glass slipper doesn’t fit.