In a tiny nutty shell

She is folded up like a pretzel on a hard plastic chair with no care for her surroundings or the heat of the room. Engulfed by a bulky purple sweater, her petite frame is unassuming and absorbed in her workbook. Hunched over the book, she fills it with chicken scratch. Hands flexed with indignation when a question stumps her, it is the only time she pauses from her progress.

Bobbling back and forth like granny in her rocker, she moves to voices and sounds that only exist in her head. An odd beat or a new song disrupts the head/shoulder bouncing. The glasses slip down her nose and are pushed back up every few minutes, but the bobbling continues.

We sit directly across the room from each other, but she has not looked up once and does not acknowledge my presence. I am staring hard at her, but Sunday makes the world oblivious. We are both waiting for our clean clothes. The soporific whirl of the dryer and the heat makes me sleepy, but she only has eyes for her work.

The machine buzzes on her side of the room and she is out of my sight, workbook still in hand until realizing, she side steps back and places it on the chair. Don’t worry little book, I  have a feeling she will be back for you soon.