I was never good at making friends; I always had a number of close confidants throughout my social experience. Cliques are like rain puddles--they're small shivery things, and impossible to get into unless dropped in a perfect position right from the sky. I was never the kind of bubbly shape-shifter who could drip seamlessly from one puddle to another. This is where she comes in. She was great at making friends. She was beautiful and seemed very kind. I suppose that was part of her allure; She could have chosen anyone, but She chose me.
     You'll never know when you'll meet her. She will smile, blink her blue eyes widely, and make small talk. You'll say something in response and she’ll laugh, perhaps nodding her head in agreement. You'll sit back and think to yourself, 'How nice'. Her charm will inevitably draw you in; she’s warm and comfortable like that. You'll probably tell her things you know you shouldn't, but it's OK; even as a child you have to learn how to properly ride a bike by skinning your knees bloody a few times.
     Men do not operate like women. Men are satisfied by brief, fiery confrontations which are followed by the making of some sort of amends. Women, however, are never content; women engineer their words into weapons. She is very much a woman in this manner; she elevates petty disagreements to marvelous battles. She dissects her opponent with the precision of a surgeon cutting away a tumor; the work is slow, bloody, and intentionally painful.
     Once she told me that she lies for fun. Tilting my head, I asked her why; she responded with a sly smile saying merely “I get bored.”
     I watch her closely. Our relationship resembles that of a scientist and a phenomenon; she is a beautiful catastrophe. Like a natural disaster, those who are close to her view her with a curious mix of fearful reverence, and feel the need to recover in her wake.
      I watch her perform the same routine, day in and day out, like a religion or a ritual. Her showers are long and too warm, drenching the bathroom in a wet blanket of steam that smells like fake flowers. She delicately brushes makeup onto her skin, and she always paints her lips the same shade of purple-red. The color is chalky and clings dryly to the lines in her smile; sometimes I catch myself wondering if the semblance to blood is intentional. She will primly smooth her bright blonde hair over her porcelain shoulders, brushing it and raking through it with small, trembling hands. Sometimes I see her staring into her mirror blankly, with an almost fearful expression on her face. Her eyes catch her own reflection and hold it close like a prayer to a God who won’t listen.
     Talking to Her leaves me with a bitter taste in my mouth. The syrupy sour-sweetness reminds me of a piece of old gum. I chew on it meditatively, and I always wonder how to best avoid her next time. I always want to avoid that taste.
     Like a lie, she is vaguely comforting but hauntingly empty.