She is covered in gold, head to toe and walking down Madison Avenue.
Gold dress and gold in her hair and sky-high stripper shoes that have water in the platforms so the glitter swims in the warm street lights.
She stops to watch an old movie in the park and she has a handbag that says BAM on it in big bright letters.
I want to be her.
I don’t know why, I am the antithesis of her, sitting in worn-out yoga pants with day three hair and a melting ice cream in my hand, but I want to.
I want to be her and I want to sparkle in the light so when she walks by I say so.
She is small but tall and has stick-like arms and big hollowed out eyes and when she looks at me I can see that her face is also covered in glitter, on her eyes, and on her mouth.
She looks at me for a moment, and on the ground behind her, there are rainbows so she just looks like a burst of color and silhouette.
She tells me no. I do not want to be her.
I tell her she is probably right, even though I don’t mean it, but her voice is so sad and hopeless that I feel I need to give her some sort of recognition, some sort of acknowledgment.
She takes off her sky-high heels and throws them at the ground where they shatter as if made of glass, and pools of glitter slide down towards my feet and coat the front of my sneakers. She walks away and so do I, but as I do I can see my steps glistening in the streetlights, covered in gold.