Her hair is up.
And not like an "elegant, flowing" up. Just, up.
It's held back messily, and with lumps in her hair. It's just lying there, on her back.
She's smiling shyly, but she won't look into your eyes.
And for the four billionth ("Actually, probably seventh time, Oliver.") time that night, you ask again: Why her?
Weren't girls supposed to, oh, you know, kind of take care of their hair and smooth out the lumps and actually comb their hair?
She bites her tongue and inspects the menu, brow furrowing as she inspects the oh-so-expensive prices. A loose strand of hair falls out and settles against the plastic, shiny surface of the beige menu.
And you can practically hear the words screaming in her head.
"Um...I'll take the..." she starts, and you are surprised to learn that she orders the largest, most expensive item on the menu.
You kind of sit there.
She tilts her head to one side, and you see her eyes focused on something behind you.
Jake Ryan is in the restaurant. You can hear his signature slogan in the background, amid laughing. And you can feel the swift, cold air swish by you as he passes the table, arm-in-arm with his new winning.
She smiles winningly at him, and her finger finds a chestnut lock of hair.
As you eat your hamburger with fries, you listen in to the muttering of a woman behind you.
"Mark, I just can't eat all of this. Can you finish this for me?"
You practically hear Mark shift slowly, sighing, and then reaching for the rest of the woman's food and-
"Oliver, did you hear me?"
You jolt up, and she is staring at you, her blue eyes searing through you.
"So, how was the date?" she looks at you, and you can practically hear the anticipation shouting through her eyes.
She ordered the $24.99 steak and baked potato and green beans and cheesy fries.
She only ate the green beans.
She wiped her mouth after every bite.
A strand of her hair was in the cheesy fries the whole time.
She didn't even ask for a carton to take the whole thing home.
When she kissed you, it was too long and she almost put her tongue in your mouth, and you felt like you were in some porn video.
She wrote on your hand with a Sharpie, and didn't even care about the chances of ink poisoning.
You don't want to go out with her.
You don't want to go out with anyone besides-
You force a smile, and reply, "She had good hair."