The wrinkles on her brow are essay lines she has worked years to write. The twitch that turns the corners of her mouth up when she's winning comes from her father, says her mother. Her father's daughter is not a title she wears proudly. Refuses his name, runs from it like the plague. She feels like a refugee in her own home. Her home is war torn and divided. And the only way out is a piece of paper that determines the rest of her life. Her head and her heart have always been two deciding factors but she has always chosen to ignore the heart. In a body ruled by logic, emotions have no place, no room to speak. Wrapped up in old library books and hours of sleepless nights, her mind is weary of the journey ahead. It is tired of working and wants to rest but she won't stop until the paper is in her hand. Ink stains her calloused fingertips and her tongue is drenched in coffee and aspirins. When she looks the mirror she is nothing more than a machine. She sees the gears behind her eyes; cranking and spinning. Her actions are calculated quick figured out by the ticks and wurs in her head.
//Click click click//
She stops. A voice calls her name from beyond her window, small rocks tap the glass. Her breathing slowing, and her cheeks redder than before. The gears shift, begin to rust and fall away as her heart rate increases. When he finds his way up to her bedroom, she'll say
"You are more of a mechanic than you thought."
"I am more human than I ever believed I was."
