Stella

If we were to meet again, I’d take a picture of you in front of the brick building you lived in on Main Street. Your red lipstick would reflect off the lens in a glittering explosion of classy sass. You were undermined, my new favorite word. It’s your word: Taylor Swifts doppelgänger, your blond hair close enough to stroke.

If we were to meet again, I’d ask you about Fordham. What it’s like to have a higher purpose. I’d ask about the Manhattan journalist boyfriend, the silent chihuahua you’d somehow accrued on Main Street, in the brick apartment that somehow allowed dogs.

If we were to meet again, I’d ask after the vintage clothes and 90’s People magazines you collected for ten cents each. You like to post those to your Instagram account now, but modestly, not pretentiously. Nothing about you is pretentious, though you are pretty enough to be.

If we were to meet again, I’d ask how you do it. The perfect mix of class and vintage blouses. Maybe I need short blond hair in order to offset bright lipstick and make myself stand out; you, however, don’t care about how you are perceived. You live life in a bubble of oblivion, stopping only to ask yourself if this is what you like.

If we were to meet again, I’d ask why you stopped talking to me. Am I not interesting enough? I think it was, I’m not mysterious enough. I blurt out everything I think, regardless of whether it will sting. I’m too crass, too real. You are unreal, keeping silent and remaining untouchable.

If we were to meet again, I’d tell you about my writing. Maybe one day, you’ll read me in a magazine and post the clippings on your walls, like your French girls.