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.