Half
Her face turns to an odd half smile, as though she has seen a curious reflection in her glass. Perhaps it is not that at all.
The cap on her head is jaunty; she rearranges it occasionally, tucking her blonde hair back underneath.
She is a tease. Or perhaps innocent. I don’t understand her. The connection we have made, the things we have in common, melt away in the face of her indifference.
Mysterious. I can see no reason for the way she is. We dance: her, two friends, and I. She closes her eyes and turns to the music, lost.
I care only for her potential as a lover, or even just as a kiss. We are not friends. She is not my type. Our conversations have been half-deep, half-revelatory, half-flowing. I do not make her laugh.
She narrows her eyes beautifully. The ink in my pen is almost gone. I would have liked to touch the sleekness of her hair.