Gucciest

“So,” I say, “which one is she?” And he points to a girl with light brown hair and long fluttery eyelashes. “That’s her,” he replies. And she is engrossed in a large book and the corners of her mouth are upturned because the story is hilarious. And suddenly I do not blame him for loving her anymore. She is beautiful, and when she looks up and sees him, her expression is kind. She is intelligent and her hair is sleek. Her hands are delicate and as she slips them into his, she smiles genuinely and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Suddenly I do not blame him for falling in love with her. I just understand. And I cannot bring myself to blame her either. I just smile.