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“Hey,” she hears, that same voice. Blondie comes up next to her, nods casually. Lottie’s heart jumps excitedly. “It’s you, right?”
Lottie tilts her head. “Uh, what's me?”
Blondie smiles, her eyes dart side to side. “You’re the chick I was supposed to meet yesterday. Right?”
Said chick is obviously not Lottie, and Lottie doubts a girl like this would ever want to meet up with her, let alone in a bar. She’s a magazine punk, ripped from the front page with her uncaringly perfect mussed hair and layered leather over stylistic plaid. Her lips are maroon, Lottie can’t stop staring at them. She’s worlds away from Lottie’s obligatory Saturday morning breakfasts with her parents at the country club and fantasized girl nights of nail-painting with the new Drew Barrymore.
So she has no idea why she says, “Yeah, that's me.”
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