When she talks about people she knows, she uses their first name whether you know them or not. It takes a second to catch on and you find yourself asking, “wait, who again? oh right, that one,” and then trying to follow the flow of words that leaves her mouth, a little too fast for you to catch all of them. But it makes things feel familiar, as if you are so weaved into her life, she just assumes you know everything. But she doesn’t get mad when you forget.
When she talks, she talks with her hands. She isn’t fluid or graceful about it, but bold with statements and exclamations, declarations, her hands punctuating the last thing she said. You watch her hands swing through the air almost like battering rams, but that’s not the right word, because she doesn’t destroy things. She creates.
Her hair is always messy, as if she was running from one place to the other without thinking or really caring. Her footsteps are loud, clunking and long, but proud at the same time. A purposeful stride.
But really, it’s her eyes. The way they seem to be the softest thing about her. When they look at you, they soften slightly and a small smile plays on her lips. Her hands reach out to hold yours and for just a moment the whirlwind that surrounds her calms.