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- The woman turned towards her. She didn’t meet Bitch’s eyes, instead looking down at Bitch’s feet. It struck Bitch that the woman was making herself small, was being inoffensive. It made her feel better, strangely.
- Slightly calmer, her words measured, she called out, “I’m going to ask you again. Who the fuck are you?”
- “Siberian,” the woman spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. Barely audible.
- “What the hell are you doing here? This is my territory.”
- “I’ll leave soon. I just wanted to talk.” Again, the whisper.
- Talking, always talking. “Not interested. Go.”
- [...]
- “Aren’t you tired of pretending?”, the woman whispered in her ear.
- “What?” Bitch tried to pull away, so she could ask the woman the question to her face, but the limbs were unmoving, more resisting than steel bars would have been.
- “Acting like one of them. Playing and losing their games, decorating yourself in their clothing and their symbols, following their rules?”
- “I-” Bitch paused, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
- The pause was telling. She knew it was telling. The woman understood her, she knew.
- The woman understood her. The thought clicked. The way the woman moved, her body language, everything, she was making sense to Bitch in a way that so few people did.
- The idea left Bitch shaken. How? Why? Was it some power? From the start, she’d known what the woman wanted to express as easily as she did with her dogs.
- - Interlude 11.a
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