She fancies herself quite tall. She is the tiniest bit taller than me. Stack four carrot peels and place them on the crown of my head. That’s how much taller she is. She has short dark hair, cut like a man’s. Freshly dyed, it is the color of a reddening eggplant. It is dark like she’s been turned over and dipped in a well of ink. After a week or so, it begins to fade and reddens at her hairline like bruised strawberries. She pulls her hair into short, shellacked spikes. Her bangs are very short and her hairline is a horseshoe around her face, neat and tidy. She is pale. So white she almost looks blue. Sometimes her whiteness makes her look ethereal. She is lit with candles inside her face and along her limbs. Sometimes her whiteness makes her look like she needs a sandwich and a long nap. She has blue eyes. She calls them hazel. They’re not. They’re blue. She has Japanese in her, and you can see it in her eyes. Her eyelids do not bubble or swell. There is no platform for eyeshadow. She has a child’s nose. Small but wide at the bottom. Freckles cover her pale skin. She has big lips. Jokes have been written about them. They are big and full, like swollen party balloons on her face. Her teeth are big for her face, and smiles overwhelm her. Her bottom teeth are busy and crooked, and her top teeth are big and look like they were cast from an old, expensive piece of ivory. Her face is not angular and chiseled. It is sweet and warm and squishy like a child’s face. It matches her childlike sense of humor.