There was something about the way she said things. Like it took forever for the thoughts to leave her brain and then her mouth. It was a slow, patient sound. Almost mocking, like it knew you could not stand the waiting.
It was not just the way she spoke. It was also her voice. She sounded like a pack a day smoker and a metzo soprano at the same time. It seemed like she gloried in this too. She loved that they listened to her, impatient to leave but unable to stop listening at the same time.
She never said anything of consequence. It all sounded profound but there was nothing in it. She spoke because she liked to hear the sound of her voice. She adored the way heads turned and feet haulted at the sound of her voice. Perhaps that was why it was empty. Vanity and pride have no space for meaning.