Of course, I’m not wearing my glasses. Contact lenses irritate me, so it’s either see 20/20 and look like a dork or accept a little blindness for the sake of beauty. Plus, my eyes are my best feature: large and deep brown, framed by thick, long eyelashes. The rest of me I hate, especially my curls, which—no matter what expensive pomade or gel I try—refuse to behave. And my body, forget it. I have short legs and wide hips, and I hate dancing to bhangra at Pakistani weddings because my tricep flab starts jiggling ten times faster than the music. I haven’t had any alcohol tonight but walking around without glasses is a little like drinking, because sometimes I bump into things. Or, like now, I can’t tell who’s coming toward me until they’re pretty close—though I can tell it’s a guy, and that he’s drunk from the way he’s pressing against the wall as he walks. The drunk guy enters my field of vision. Broad shoulders, cerulean eyes, light brown hair streaked blond by sun and salt.
