The snow settled onto the chocolate brown of her hair, making her semblance even more magical than I had grown accustomed to. She tucked a strand delicately behind her ear and turned to face me.
“They will wave their hands in the air proudly and shout that the world was made for people like them and not for people like us, ” she began.
She paused slightly then and, despite the nature of the conversation, a soft smile appeared on her cherry lips.
“But, ” she added,
“what they won’t tell you is that the world was made by people like us, and not by people like them.”
We continued walking, our footsteps fading away quickly behind us. It occurred to me at that moment that I would likely never learn the art of understanding her.