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She is marvelously ordinary, in her boatnecked t-shirt and denim skirt, black leggings fraying just a little and worn sneakers with new laces. Her hair is clumped with hairspray and her foundation flakes at the tip of her nose. She leans her weight on her right leg, just like you, and sucks on her cheek in a way you know will end up leaving tiny sores that sting next time you eat.
You wonder what she sees when she looks at you, if she zones in on the symbol on your chest or the pimple on your forehead, if she measures you both on a scale or places you side by side without comparing.
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