The Lost Girl

The girl was lost in a fog. She tried, but her efforts only made her lag behind. Her speech was deliberate and she took pains to enunciate each letter. I couldn't tell if she was happy. Perhaps she's not aware enough to tell if she's happy or sad. In any case she matters little to herself and I should refrain from using "either/or". It's never that simple.

She made me her duty, and with the utmost tedium would ensure that I had everything I needed, but she did these things out of habit, not concern. Good manners are indoctrinated, and not always experienced as a practice of well-being. Often they're just necessary precautions. Whenever I glanced at her she would look back at me with hollow eyes. Then I could not tell if she was being sincere, but it's only me that judges and doubts. She was just there, unassumingly so, as if she posed no significance, as if she was on the verge of dissipating, dissolving...She was an unfilled form, a mere outline of a girl.