Great. Why can’t she just leave us alone? Or actually . . . maybe she can stay. She’s about my age and height with light brown skin and black hair pulled into a ponytail that spills in waves down her back. Brown eyes, clear and wide, under delicately arched eyebrows. Cupid’s bow lips with a slick of rose lip gloss. A dimple on her chin. Shimmery dark green nail polish at the tips of slender fingers. And the way she stands—not clerkish at all. Graceful. Regal, even. Like she’s a queen in disguise. I’m hooked. Who is she? I stand up a little straighter.
