Describe yourself in the third person

Here's my second response to a prompt in my book: "Describe yourself in the third person-your physical appearance and personality-as though you were a character in a book."

* * *

She insisted on dying hair this dark red, unnatural, Lily Evans red.  She'd had the same mild hairstyle--side parted, with the same unadventurous bangs--for the entirety of her young adulthood.  Her round face was usually carefully neutral, brows sometimes furrowing in concentration.  She dressed in unadorned, solid-colored v-necks and sweaters, relying on her strange earrings and quirky necklaces to communicate individuality.

Admittedly, she was bright.  Her eyes sparkled when someone mentioned the stars she loved so much.  She'd been working as an research intern--thank goodness, not the coffee-fetching kind--for two years, carefully taking data and placing it in a spreadsheet, rearranging it, lovingly extracting sense from it.  She didn't speak much of the content of her college classes, more of the people.  She was almost pretentious in her dislike of ignorance and stupidity, and it always seemed like it abounded around her.

She was given to bouts of fantasy.  Some mornings she would wake up and dress, slowly and deliberately, applying her minimal makeup with the utmost care, wondering if it might be the day the TARDIS would arrive and the Doctor would whisk her off for an adventure. Other days she did not rise at all, preferring instead to return to her dreams, where Sherlock and Jim from The Office vied for her affections.

Since she was little, she had been full to the brim with quirks.  She still avoided stepping on the divisions in the sidewalk or tiled floors.  She would loosen a tendril from the body of her hair and bring the end to her face, rubbing the soft, even strands back and forth across her lips.  When she sat, her toes curled inward and under.

People exhausted her.  Interaction was taxing, sometimes too taxing, and there were days leaving the house was not an option, simply because she could not imagine dealing with the sound of another human voice.  She forgot sometimes that she was only twenty.  Sometimes the years seemed interminable.  On other days, they were far too few.  After all, she was just waiting for a day--a day that would make all the other days make sense.

* * *

It was hard to know when this one is done.  Maybe it's still not, but I don't mind.

Never underestimate the lives of old men sitting on park benches.

I'm trying this new thing.  I got this book--642 Things to Write About.  Lots of people have told me an aspiring writer needs to write every day, even if they don't want to, even if it's garbage.  I heard without listening.  Then I heard George Saunders say it, and now I'm kicking my ass in gear.

Today's prompt: Never underestimate the lives of old men sitting on park benches.

What the hell was the purpose of this goddamned tam if it didn't even keep the sun out of his eyes?

He'd been motionless since noon, uncaring when a hurried woman on her cell phone had kicked over the cane he had propped beside him.  She didn't even turn around, just kept plowing ahead like the honorable steam engines.  Hell, her blouse was even that same unstoppable crimson.

He'd gotten through Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged.  He wondered what color steamer Dagny preferred.

Nearby, a pigeon cooed.  He fucking hated pigeons.  Why did people always think that geezers fell in love with the little shits?  One had pestered him on Tuesday for a bite of his bologna sandwich.  He'd taken a vicious kick at it, and missed, of course, cursing as he lost his grip on his cane and the little devil flew off.  A mother strolling with her small daughter had put a hand to the girl's shoulder, urging her to walk faster.

They had scattered at the approach of the steam engine woman, but they were back now, clamoring over God-knows-what.  He was glad he had ignored the many suggestions he move to Florida, where he was sure the stupid things thrived.  There were no corn fields in Florida, no tiny Methodist churches at intersecting highways.  Did they sing hymns in Florida?  Did anyone know the Doxology by heart?

Praise Him from Whom all blessings flow

Praise Him all Creatures here below

Damn, the sun was bright today.  He'd take the tam back, wave it in the cashier's face and tell him it didn't do him one lick of good.  The sweat was beading on his forehead, and the pigeons looked as if they were melting.  The iridescence of their necks and wings was like the gem his granddaughter loved so much.  What was it?  Fiery topaz something-or-other.  Now the feathers were falling, collecting in gentle drifts on the sidewalk.

Praise Him above, ye Heavenly Hosts

They took off together as if signaled, growing, stretching, bleaching out and leaving their iridescence behind.  They were huge, wingspans wider than human arms can stretch, their haphazard takeoff becoming a choreographed dance.  How could he hate them now?

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost

He stood, forgetting about the cane and the steam engine woman, forgetting Florida and mystic fire topaz.  The sun didn't hurt his eyes anymore.  He wouldn't be left behind, not this time.

Amen.

So there's day one.  I don't know if I like it, but it doesn't matter.  I'm digging what I see in this book, though, so I'll definitely be doing more of these.