Her eyes are blue like the ocean in those Instagram pictures from remote islands that look more blue than any ocean could ever be. Her nostrils are different shapes–it’s the only imperfection on her entire face–and she hates them. You only notice if you’re looking up at her, otherwise her nose sits perfectly in between her eyes and above her radiant, white smile. Shiny, dark-brown hair frames her face that freckles when she spends too much time in the sun. When she’s feeling playful, she scrunches her nose and gleams a soft smile, squinting her blue eyes and shaking her head slightly. She makes random, little noises that sound like they may have been plucked from a Disney movie or a kid’s video game–a little, high-pitched meep that paints a smile on my face everytime. I try to make the noise sometimes, but it never comes out quite like she does it. She knows everyone and everyone knows her, she walks with swagger and keeps her thoughts to herself, except around me. I frequently catch myself asking her, You didn’t actually say that, right? To which she will laugh and say Of course not, but I was thinking it. She rarely finishes her food. I know she’s done when she starts picking up little bits from her plate–a single tomato, one edamame bean, one piece of pasta–and placing them lightly on the edge of my plate, waiting for me to vacuum them up like I do with most food on the table. She does it mid-conversation, I notice every time but continue my train of thought in between the offerings.
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