Jul 23, 2017
Viola remembers her childhood—she was the harp, adored by a room. (She wants adoration to drip from the mouths of all here: she practically demands it.)
She has occupied herself with admiring the room: the slaves, she thinks about how delicate their flesh might be beneath her hands by the end of the night; she thinks about how music has always been her calling. She is caught in thought when eyes pull her, as if they have been watching her for too long, for the hair on the back of her neck stands on edge.
“Don’t look at me like you expect me to dance with you, I dance for myself,” she snaps at them, displeased by the interrupting presence of another.