Wild rose, aggressive usurper, relentless conqueror of attention, quarrels wants to make me jelous, pretends she is nothing but poetry distilled, stops at every table and whispers: "He is hard prose, the syntax, I can't grasp" Unmindful of sly looks from various corners, that in fact suggest, I had good riddance, I am concerned about the clutter on my desk, that escaped my notice during the days I was in that chasm
I was deeply in to Dostoevsky, my cleansing ritual on such occasions: the Russian masters when she passed my cubicle she spies Chekhov lying on my table, waiting his turn "The lady with the lapdog"* she reads aloud, with suspicion would she ever understand, what Dostoevsky to me, would have told?
"wild flower" was her metaphor she had for herself *"The lady with the lapdog" famous short story of Anton Chekhov about an adulterous woman