And because, well. It looks good. Let’s not lie.
I fix the silver chain on my wrist, checking how it sits against my skin.
I am fully prepared for every local grandma to clutch her pearls and tell meshame on you, young man, over the bit of tattoo peeking out from under my sleeve.
If they saw theotherone, thegoodone, they would probably start throwing holy water at me.
I glance at Daisy in the mirror, exhaling slowly. "You look so Italian right now," she says, squinting at me.
I laugh so hard I almost choke. It is like telling a fish,wow, you look so much like a fish right now.
Bitch,I ama fish.
Maybe that is why it is so funny.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
She tilts her head, all drama. "I mean you are giving coastal summer heartbreak energy while I look like I tried to cosplay as a Smurf and gave up halfway."
I snort and walk over to her, wrapping my arms around her from behind. "You look like a magical sea fairy," I say, resting my chin gently on top of her head.
I run a hand through her damp strands, pretending to be sweet. Then I add, "A sea fairy who lost a battle with a noodle and some printer ink."
"You bitch," she says, shoving me off instantly.
I stumble back, laughing.
"You are such an ass," she mutters, smiling. She grabs her bag and tosses her brush into it.
"Five minutes, okay? Be downstairs. The girls are coming."
I nod, still adjusting my sleeves. "Are we all going in the same car?"
She gives me a look like I just asked if the Earth is flat.
"No. Two cars. Mine and yours."
I raise an eyebrow. "So you are leaving me alone with how many girls exactly?"
She grins. "Three. You will survive. They do not bite."
I stare at her.
Do they not? Do we know that for sure?
I fear women. They are unpredictable.
They notice things. They do too much.
They compliment each other constantly and it stresses me out a lot. At my university back in Canada, it is mostly girls, and I swear they complimenteverything. Every tiny detail.
I love your bag.
I love your eyebrows.
I love your existence.
Anything.
