Method of Mancy

When I walk into the room, she is sitting alone. Her dessert spoon hangs slack in her hand, the bowl of ice cream in front of her clearly forgotten. Her face rests on a few knuckles and her eyebrows are pulled into a knot. She’s staring into the distance, eyes glazed over, as if agonizing over some monumental conundrum. She looks completely drained, unbearably confused, and even a little heartbroken.

I’m taken aback, unsure if I should even continue approaching; I worry that she might explode, or maybe melt into dust if I startle her.

Finally, I say, “hey.”

She doesn’t move for a second, but then her eyes slowly slide away from the nothingness they were affixed to. They find my face and she nods her head at me vaguely.

“Hey,” she smiles strangely, still so eerily haunted. “I was just thinking about you.”