( Goldie’s unfeeling short fingers scratch idly on a laddered spot of their inky tights. They’re sat on top of a trash can to sort through the sketches of birds and trees they’d done that day. ) 

( Their sleepy grey left eye is squeezed shut and hidden under a tuft of cloud-colored hair. It’s not needed right now. The right one – the nearsighted –  is open, seeking errant pencil marks and smears of charcoal against the vellum paper. ) 

( They stiffen at the erratic rhythm of someone coming near. It catches their attention and they look up and over. )

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