You stroll down the hallway without chaos, or rather, you slump in a mid-row bus seat with no one to wave to, back home fresh from boarding school in Europe. No, I don't remember you. You play the game as well as any, starting with the ding of chat pop-up windows before moving on to the more serious rumble of a text message. Sure, I possibly remember your first text to me in the grocery store. I've deleted it now.

You, superficial 16-year-old boy, are heartbreakingly naive. What movie taught you that the fresh meat junior underdog can get the senior? You blew your chances right from the beginning, with your definition of hot as a model in a tube dress. Please. Hot comes in many forms, and I see it sometimes in the rippling image of an hourglass figure in leather boots. Don't lie, I know you always had a soft spot for it.

Let me tell you something, honey, attraction comes in all forms. I do look quite good in yellow. That dress of mine that you said was ugly? Just like a little girl, I will wear to bed and I will wear it to school, to the store and to the cafe. I will wear it until the gold striped collar pins down your eyes like a jailbird and tattoos your room while you try to sleep; I will wear it until every swish of polyester A-line pleated skirt makes you think of me in black, and I will wear it until black turns gray and the simple memory of metallic mini skirt will strike you with a seizure in old age.

I will wear this 80s New Wave dress until all you can think about is black and gold, when everyone on the street thinks about it too, and while you're thinking I'm betting you've realized that, no, no way in hell, does any nun in any convent dress like this.

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