“I’m not being cute,” I promise her, “and I’m definitely not being whimsical.” The arch of her eyebrow deepens. “Are you sure? Because you’re prone to both, babe.” I roll my eyes. “You just mean I’m short and wear bright colors.” “No, you’re tiny,” she corrects me, “and wear loud patterns. Your style is, like, 1960s Parisian bread maker’s daughter bicycling through her village at dawn, shouting Bonjour, le monde whilst doling out baguettes.”
