You have a type. You say you don't, but you do. Everyone does. Yours? Long hair. Something about a man with long hair repulses you just as much as it pulls you in. You simply can't resist unraveling the mystery behind this man's reasoning for such a feminine jesture.

So, naturally, you follow him.

It's a beatiful spring day, reason enough to go completely out of your way. You just feel like walking. Though your feet hurt, your head is throbbing, and your gut is growling for that piece of chicken sitting in your fridge since you can't afford the fifteen take-aways you pass daily, the sun is warm, the breeze is nice, and this femme fella has eased every possible gripe in your body, has enticed you to walk this way. And you can't keep your eyes off of him.

You haven't seen what he really looks like, but you know he's cute. Or at least attractive. He has to be in order to have such gorgeous Pantene locks blowing so confidently in the wind. Three blocks in (and six blocks away from the direction you need to be in), your ankle begins to swell and suddenly the pace that he's been holding has become too much for the growing grapefruit that used to be your essential joint. A limp ensues. Not a smooth, casual pimp-limp, but the embarrassing, geriatric, gonna-trip-over-nothing kind; the one that turns heads of the opposite sex and mothers in a mix of pity and wonder.

The distance grows between the two of you, but you decide that you've gone too far to turn back now. Plus your best friend lives around here somewhere. You could drop by, say hi, have a free dinner and a drink, and slyly yawn and stretch for that ride home somewhere in the neighbourhood of ten-thirty, an hour too dangerous for this bustling metropolis you so chicly reside in.

A stop light pauses his Olympic-worthy stride and speed and your ankle thanks him for it. As you approach the best of your fantasies become a conglomerate of one, embodied in this mysterious man. Blue eyes, dark brown hair (of which you can see already), full lips, long lashes, thick (but not connecting) eyebrows, no or little facial hair (five o'clock is okay, but that's as far as you'll go before demanding he shave). He'll be taller when you saddle up next to him, at least three inches. And he'll turn to you, not at all creeped out by the fact that you're the same girl that came off the train some blocks back because this is a happening city and you practically never run into the same person twice. But he'll smile and his teeth will be perfect; not in the traditional sense but perfect in your way. White, straight on top, slightly crooked on the bottom, affecting his speech pattern with a sweet, endearing lissssp that draws an acceptable almost adorable amount of spittle.

But the fucking light turns before you can get there. And he's gone, jogging this time to make it across before some asshole can make a right turn. You look up in time to see his long [strong] arms open only to wrap themselves around some short skinny broad with black hair and crystalline grey eyes, dressed even chicer than you with a loose beanie cap and a peasant dress. vintage whore is what you'd affectionately call it, secretly wishing you could squeeze your ass into the so-called loose-fitting size two, your hair was long enough to fill that off-white (you'd prefer grey) beanie, your legs weren't so fucking long; if only you were just a little more . . . soft.

Defeat hits you two fold as the momentary hope that it's his sister, cousin, long lost mother that he's meeting flees at the meeting of their lips in a passionate kiss. You begin to hate them both as they pull away and giggle slightly, only to embrace once more.

Cunts. The pair of them.

Your stomach growls, pulling you back to your lonely, painfully single life. Your best friend's house is about a block away and the throbbing in your ankle almost convinces you to go, but then you remember the boyfriend and the puppy they'd just bought together and the reason why she no longer is in fact your best friend. Just a friend. A buddy that takes enough pity on you to offer to pay for the first six months of that Christian dating site that makes sure every match is just that fucking perfect you end up in commercials together smooching and smiling and dancing about how fucking happy you are.

Tears threaten, but your headache won't allow it. The sun is hot and the breeze has stopped. Sweat drips instead and, embarrassed in front of no one but you, you head home to cold chicken and luke-warm apple juice.