her name was not bella, of course, but she had a name that one would call a dog. she had matched her fluro orange blouse to her fluro orange patent pumps to her fluro orange bangle to her fluro orange handbag. she was blonde-blonde. big eyed. tattooed.
she drank quickly from a mixture in a water bottle, and when she was finished she went out to get vodka. she went missing and we watched her follow a guy in a singlet up the street, gesturing wildly.
“i think i need to adopt her,” said my housemate, “she needs help sorting her shit out.”
she’d checked in to a hotel with her boyfriend. it didn’t work out, and she left him there to gather a debt in her name. she found this out when we were at a bar. i’d met my parents for an afternoon drink there earlier, and bella had arrived later with my housemate. they work together, bella and my housemate, at a leagues club.
at one point in the night bella turned to me and asked “where is your bra?!” i was wearing pink floral. no bra. hers was visible, straps protruding from her sleeves. her eyeliner, oh god, i imagined wiping it off.
