Sandra lives two floors down in 7E. She answers the door in a pink kimono printed with irises and Saran Wrap swathed around her head.
“Want me to dye your hair?” she asks and I say sure.
In the morning, I walk with her to class, even though I wish I didn’t have to. If I had to estimate, I would guess that Sandra weighs one hundred and eighty, maybe one hundred and ninety pounds. Her neck looks like sausage casing unraveling, pocked with acne scars. She’s always bumping into me, knocking me with her hip or brushing my bare arm with her breasts. It’s like she must imagine she’s a thin, skinny person trapped in a fat girl’s body. Sometimes I think she has no idea who she really is. Even if she is the only real friend I’ve made in New York City.
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