She goes between countries. I go between grocery stores.
She travels the way I read: voraciously.
She can change money in any language; I can quote Lolita.
She runs. I eat french fries, cheesecake, double shot lattes.
When we were 16 that she told me she had libraries inside her. I felt that I had at most a pamphlet, maybe a few books.
She knows exactly how to care for her hair, spending hundreds of dollars on fine, organic products, sharing them with me in special, miniature glass jars.
I float between Hair Cutteries, searching, dissatisfied, never going to the same place twice as if I've just been to a Cathouse. As if I'll be seen.
She loves deep and fast and often. I love slow and unspectacularly, but in an endless, enduring kind of way.
She has a sister. I feel like they both belong to me.
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