She liked things found out of place, often feeling much the same about herself. Sitting by the window, she took out her notebook and wrote about it.
Everything else in the museum seemed perfect, the art all lined up. An artist once told her, to get into a gallery or museums your work needed to be definite in pattern, like little soldiers in a row.
So why the yellow book left on a long side seat near the window. Everyone passing it moving from room to room at the museum. They all glanced at it, but it was apart and did not fit. No one wanted to be the one who sat and opened it.
A feeling she knew well having moved through life that way. No one stopping her to pull back the cover to really see who she was, not that she knew that completely herself.
She looked at the last few words she had written, taking a final sip of coffee. wondering if the yellow book was still there, if anyone opened it. Closing her notebook, she started walking back to rescue it...