It did not seem right. She was way too young. Her hair was way too rough. Her eyes way too damaged by the night she had before. Her breath was a mix between toothpath, rum and coffee. She came to the place like on a levitation, too tired or too drunk to touch the floor.
It could not be. They were way too serious to actually trust that tiny hippy with her intrusive writing assignement.
But still something has happened there. Something she would have described as better than fucking. She knew their names like they were tatooed on her skin. She could not tell when it happened. But they now could write. All of them. When six monthes before writing meant lying on a papper a list of sounds that she had to read out loud to understand. They were writing words now.
She had been getting high every saturday morning just by beeing in that class during that process in front of 8 women that had decided to go back to school when others went running. They would look at her then at what she wrote for the two hours. And no matter how short her night was, how intense her friday was, them looking at her gave her an energie that surprised her every week. Gravity did not apply. She was a bird on cocaine and then desireless ballon, and then a bird again. She ran, jumped, laughted, explained, explained, explained, drew, read, tried a jock, explained, explained, explained, and sat down on a remoted chair drinking a cold coffee while looking at them writing like she would look at her half-awake family on a sunday morning till someone descritly called her name and handed her a notebook. She d be transported by the text.
The stories were moving but more than the story the words transported her. The proper ending letter. The proper preposition. A third sentence with no mistake. She felt it all over her body and gradually felt her feet leaving the floor. She flied a smile on her face that would not go.