She may, at any given point, wear makeup, sparing and tastefully, but she also might not. She might clip up her hair, she might do something else entirely with it, or something else entirely with something else entirely.

She may, at times, seem to have very little control over the volume of her voice, for which reason she may be overheard, every so often, to reveal rather embarrassing bits of personal history, while confiding them to a trusted friend or work associate—but of course, never in shame, as she feels none—and for which reason, frequenters of the coffee shop that she currently works at may know the following to be true of her:

That she's been dumped, via phone; email, text- or instant-message; and, most recently timeline post; that she’s dated at least one “boy” who turned out to be gay; he hadn’t known that [something] [something’d] [something]. Of this you can be certain.

She may know that she hadn’t known other things, or still doesn’t and one day will discover even more that she hadn’t.

Did I mention that her coworkers speak of her as though she were much younger than she is or that they think she needs to be shielded from some of the harsher truths of adult living? Well, they do that quite a lot.

She may be seen, at any given point in a day’s work, to sidle up to a male coworker, and lay her head on his shoulder, and this act may be accompanied by an exclamation of fatigue, linguistic or paralinguistic, or by a silence undoubtedly significant of fatigue. He may be a rather tall aspiring actor, or a rather tall successful painter, or something else entirely. He may be dressed one way, he may be dressed another way, but with certitude it can be stated that he “is dressed.”

She may talk a little too much. But never more than just a little. However, it may be the case that certain individuals, who would never think to accuse her or anyone of such, nor who one could be said to talk, unequivocally, too much—may be won round to the notion that she does, but not more than just a little, just barely perceptibly too much.

She may have a neighbor, whose name may be Derek, who doesn’t really know her, and with whom she hasn’t exchanged more than a few completely necessary words, but who may be nursing something of an unhealthy crush on her. Mind you that Derek, whose name might also be Dexter, or Declan, or Derrick; Dunstan, or Douglas, or Douglass, doesn’t know Kat, doesn’t know Claire all that well; that his entire conception of her may be misguided and mistaken.

Nevertheless he makes her very uncomfortable.

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