I found a license on the ground. Her name was Miranda Moore. I thought that sounded so glamorous, like Marilyn Monroe.
I immediately began to weigh myself up next to Miranda, all 5 foot 11 inches of her. She’s probably a model. Brown hair. Hazel eyes.
Miranda lives in the East Village. I assume she does yoga at one of those trendy free places you hear people talk about in the alphabet city cafes where Miranda drinks fruit smoothies.
Miranda would think that I am so square because I work on Wall Street and wear stilettos to board meetings instead of the Bahamas. As if I would ever go there.
I assume she has an aromatherapy blog and wears her long hair in a pony tail with one of those colorful headbands when she works out at Crunch every day. 30 minutes treadmill. 45 floor work.
I bet she reads Eckhart Tolle books while she eats vegan food in China Town.
It’s not that I hold anything against Miranda. I think it’s great she never misses a family reunion and drives an electric car when she’s not cycling everywhere. Always wearing a helmet. Safety first.
According to Miranda Moore’s birthday, she is a water sign. Like you. You are a water sign. I wonder if the two of you are the same. I wonder if Miranda falls emotionally apart at the sounds of Liebestraum.
I think we did that once. Miranda could never pull that off.