Kharma and the charms that changed me
I want to tell you about Kharma, because she charmed me, and she changed me, and now she’s gone. She was so young — less than forty. She had challenges that she met with humour, but also by undermining the system. She would not be controlled. I loved her for that, even though I know the moonlight flit is only funny if you’re not the landlord. I have a problem with a world that crushes the creativity of those who refuse to fit. But I also know that petty scams and small dishonesties cause fracture lines that potentially shatter the fragile fabric of fairness we rely on. Put simply, I’m ambivalent about my loyalty to the social network I’m embroiled in. Charmaine, however, was not: all was fair game.
She was dark haired with twinkling eyes, usually made up with mascara, but subtly, a kind of leopard’s yawn to the gaze that slipped behind your answering smile . She had a cupid’s bow lip, and dimples, though they were understated. She wore black. She said that it was the easiest thing not to have to think about what she would wear, just to buy a nice black top and black leggings. She dyed her hair black too, a lustrous mane of shining black, straight as a curtain. Her hands were beautiful, fingers well shaped. She had no pretensions about her figure, but she kept herself in excellent shape, taut and lithe, encouraging her friend to take long walks with her huge, exuberant, but…
