| She wore a barrette, metal, in her hair, and it was in the shape of an infinity sign, and she had on those nerdy glasses this time. Bottle blonde, just like they almost always are, with the darker roots growing out and the hair cut short, of course, smoking her cigarettes like a professional would, someone in a commercial. They’re all the same, small frames, nice curves. Unlikely to gain weight as they age. Her arm sleeved with tattoos of something foreign but oh-so-colorful, complete with the high-water 501s and the army-navy Red Cross bag that served as a purse. White tank top over black bra, she probably had her nipples pierced and she probably put out on the third date. That is, if she wasn't preoccupied with her notebook as she scribbled little memos to posterity and crappy poetry about getting dissed in a relationship and lyrics for her band that never-will-be. They’re all the same, anyway, and they're always cold, so they turn the heater up in September and they steal hoodies from boys and they name their cars with names that change depending on the time of day, and the mood. |
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