At Least They're Committed

He’s smiling. “I think she’s rather cute, don’t you?”

I look. “Not particularly.”

He sighs.

“Though I suppose she has her moments,” I quickly add to avoid a lecture.

“What don’t you like about her?”

Now I sigh. “Her smile is crooked . . . ”

“People on the street thank her for smiling at them . . . ”

“True. Her hair is unruly . . . ”

“People would pay big bucks for hair that thick and ‘unruly’ . . . ”

He’s right of course.

“She’s fat . . . ”

“She is NOT!” he snaps, shaking his head.

“She’s not perfect,” says I.

Standing behind me, he puts his hand on my shoulder. “Yes, she is.”

I smile, geekily, at him and our reflection in the mirror. I have no idea what I am. A creature of some sort. A creature. But I guess I’ll have to do.