Dear V,

I saw you twice a week at chorus, and that was all. We went to different schools, lived in different neighborhoods, and even within chorus — though you stood right next to me — had different friend groups. Your stratum in society was so much higher than mine that I was dizzy just thinking about it. My admiration of you was an obsession with the most irrelevant details. I knew so little that those details were my pets.

Here are a few. Your nail beds were naturally long and graceful — a manicurist’s fantasy. The opposite of a nail-biter’s nubbins. I still self-consciously nudge back the flesh of my cuticles to emulate them. You had been in chorus since you were tiny, and so you had the uniform polo to prove it. You never got a larger one as you grew. It fit tight and short, unlike the larger shapeless shirts for the rest of us who joined later and were given adult sizes. A boy at your day school named Luke gave you a fistful of flowers once. That was the only time you seemed sentimental. You never spoke of him before that or again.

Later I tried 3 times to be your friend on Facebook. Denied each time. But I am still drawn to you. Terrifying and unfathomable. A body of victory with the head of a tiger. Edwardian eyes and the darkest sarcasm. I’ll never know whether I like you or want to be you.

(Disclaimer: This is part of the letter series)

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