A few Mondays ago, I was in a friend's apartment. A birthday get-together, full of familiar faces with unknown names, people I'd seen either here or there, each with a personality that I'd contrived based on a smile or t-shirt. Sitting on the one sunken couch, I fingered the faded brown corduroy of its upholstery, trying to be the story I wanted all of these strangers to know. The story of myself where I am witty and charming, where my blue eyes contain both warmth and mystery. The story where I speak clearly and my jeans are just the right length, where the room always feels charged like static on a dry winter day.

In that dingy apartment, full of too many plastic cups and too much dust, what did my name mean to those people? The girl with pale gray-blue eyes like mine smiled so secretively when she leaned in close to speak slowly in my ear. When I answered, she pulled back just enough to put her ear near my lips and her eyes on my own, only inches from iris to iris. What did she see?

I try to create something to tug at her.