A blonde. A brunette.
A brilliant overachiever.
A girl with a baby-lady voice.
A vegetarian.
She is slight in her flimsy cotton trench – Forever 21.
She snorts when she laughs. Or barks.
Sweetie. Honey. Doll. Dearie. Dumpling. Doodle. Darling.
A butterfly. A sleek golden cat. A swan.
An animal.
Someone in old Havaianas with dusty callused heels.
Someone very vain in her black hot pants and tights with runs down her thighs. Curvy calves.
Someone who keeps track of her schedule in a dog-eared notebook with your name and her name and blue ballpoint hearts and stars.
Someone who bakes her own bread. And makes her own bed.
Someone that knows all the words to that song.
Someone that drives a yellow mid-70's Datsun with a Nixon Now bumper sticker.
Someone who eats her blueberry muffin, a big cookie, a scone and drops the crumbs. Crumbs everywhere.
Someone older than you by 20 years. Old (white hair!) – strident and shrill – you see spunk and sass.
Someone broad-backed in horizontal stripes.
Someone with cat hair on her couch and coat.
Someone not from here.
Someone who loves herself more than she loves you: A bad ass. A hot mess.
A broad. A gal. A pal.
Someone younger. Funnier. Sweeter. Smarter. Thinner.
Paula. Lainey. Meg. Jen. Dawn. Gina. Kayla. Kristie. Kelly.
A feminist. A Republican. A poet. A Jew. A gardener.
A massage therapist. A middle manager. A mom. A moron.
Someone. Anyone. No one.
Not me.
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