On Monday, she painted her fingernails bright pink. She defied anyone to call her a girly-girl. The polish dried within sixty seconds. She liked that. Naturally her nails grew shapely and strong. Never had she needed to buy fake ones from the chemist up the road the way other girls did. She liked her nails because of this. They made her feel special. Something about her was extraordinary.
When the polish was dry (60 seconds by five nails on each hand by two hands is 600 seconds which is ten minutes) she collected her satchel and counted the things inside. One file. One stapled together stack of papers. One coloured notebook and unit guide (matching of course). One blue pen, one black pen, one red pen and one tube of white-out. One bottle of water. One phone (which never rang). One purse. Satisfied, she slung it over her right shoulder. Then, she shifted it to her left, just for a change of pace.
On the way out the door, she purposefully smoothed her hair back behind one ear so that she could admire her fingernails in the mirror. It made her smile. Because even if every other part of her life was colourless, at least she had pink fingernails.