The goddess of the dimly lit (fiction)

I always knew I would choose a woman with substance-- with issues. Shallow never appealed to me,
and level headed seemed a bit boring as well. I wanted a challenge, and got one. Or more to the point, a series of them.

There is something haunting about her. She carries a weight of uneasiness, a cloak that surrounds her.
Despite those shadows, or perhaps in defiance of it, her eyes glitter like a spot of sun reflected back off mica.

The opposite of a moth, she finds direct light disconcerting. She prefers the edges.
In public she finds her way into corners. Her preference is always for the peripheral. She communicates with reticence. Her words are few and cryptic.
There are whole days that pass when she speaks not at all. Some afternoons the opening and closing of doors are the only evidence she is there.
I ask her- hands out to her-palms pointed upward: Why are you keeping it to yourself? Her answer- more than once has been
"I have nothing to share, and have nothing to keep from you."

It is not spoken with animosity-- her voice is clear and calm. Matter of fact. Which is chilling, because it speaks to a vast emptiness- the depth of it.
I don't tell her this, but it is what I think:
Talking to her sometimes is akin to dropping a penny down a well and not hearing it reach the bottom.

We share a house, you would think I would know her better.

_{help, guidance and redpencils}