She was small but heavy, and she had a problem with perspiration. I liked her, but not too much. We wrote each other letters on whatever came to hand; used envelopes, receipts, wrappers from food products. I left my letters stuffed into the hedge at the bottom of the hill, then watched from my window until she came to pick them up. The secrecy wasn’t really necessary, but it made us smile.
Every couple of days I would thrust my hand into the branches to see if she had written back. Her childlike scrawl was difficult to comprehend, and the words generally weren’t worth reading. It was something to do, I suppose. My music wasn’t selling, and all she did was walk from her home to the shops, over and over. She sometimes came back carrying a bag; I don’t know what it was that she bought. I asked once, in one of my letters, but a week later I found it stuffed back into the hedge, stained with tears.
She was small, but heavy, and I’m glad I never got close to her than I did.