Camila

I have a new girlfriend. Her name’s Camila. We met in the kitchen last night. She’s approximately 25 centimeters tall. She doesn’t have a body.

Camila likes the following things: Getting her hair cut, getting her hair styled, people playing with her hair, people complimenting her hair, people talking about her hair. She has a lazy eye. She’s not jealous. She rarely talks.

Camila and I don’t talk much. We usually just sit and enjoy each other’s presence. She rarely blinks. Her lips are red. When we kiss she’s always the first to pull away. She has commitment issues. She wants to get married. She says she needs me and then doesn’t talk to me for several days.

Camila is from Northern Peru, where her family still lives. She’s never left the country. As of yesterday she didn’t know Chile was on the Pacific and Argentina on the Atlantic. She has no desire to travel. She doesn’t read. She doesn’t listen to classical music. She thinks chess is for nerds.

Camila likes instant coffee. She likes papayas. She doesn’t have a digestive system. She wants to be a hair stylist one day but lacks hands. She lacks ambition. She lacks a central nervous system. She lacks a sense of humor. I spend the majority of every day trying to get Camila to laugh, and she hasn’t even blinked. She rarely looks me in the eye. She says it makes her uncomfortable.

Camila and I are good for each other. Opposites attract. Camila and I will be together forever, or at least the rest of this week. She lives in the closet in Clara’s room. Her hair gets shorter everyday, unlike ours, which gets longer. Camila has perfect skin. She doesn’t have to shower. She smells like hairstyling products and plastic. Camila is a my girlfriend.