Galatea
Galatea is a child, eleven years old. Her face is like china, framed in glossy black hair that falls straight past her shoulders, in straight sheets like a waterfall of pristine black oil. She gazes with eyes wide and full of understanding and wisdom.
She floats, her hair fans out behind her as if in an invisible breeze, as if she had forgotten gravity once exited for her.
She floats, her hair fans out behind her as if in an invisible breeze, as if she had forgotten gravity once exited for her.