It begins with a small impatience.
Something about the light. Or the way it has been warm for three days straight. The consistency of it. The knowing.
So it flutters. A quickening under the skin, beginning. The desire for something more. For something less, perhaps. No matter, as long as it isn’t the same. As long as it’s different to this.
Her mother says she has gypsy blood. Something garnet red and restless, warming her veins. Like the sun setting on her horizon, or the rising of it somewhere else.
There is no place (she’s home).