I brought her out to the grey stone tables sitting empty behind the dry cleaners. Amelia is the kind of person you want to show off, you know, like a Brooks Brothers label left out for a loose eye to notice. I can't exhude coolness myself—that would require money or at least exercise. Not that I care. I've given up being anyone I can't emulate with minimal effort, but that doesn't mean I won't benefit from a pretty accessory.
She sat down, curly coiled dark chestnut hair tied casually up. Her bag was structured and expensive, I could tell. I looked at her to talk, but it feels like I was stealing glances instead.
We engaged in a lively discussion of fonts for my business. What does Sans Serif evoke? Is the mood of my shop captured in a ballerina or a forest?
Six months later that shit wouldn't matter, but I didn't know that then. I was enjoying the company of my pretty friend Amelia and our bright future.
Written by Sandra Rhee. Originally published at sandrarhee.com/writing/my-friend-amelia.