No, that doesn’t do her justice.
She has the kind of looks that make me dumb.
This is unusual.
Not that I’m so smart, but I’m accustomed to maintaining my poise with all sorts of people, hot, ugly, brilliant, impaired, successful, destitute, famous, unknown. It’s very unusual for someone to disequilibrate me simply by who she is, by how she is, by how she looks.
But Diamond does.
In the movie, she would be portrayed by Jennifer Lopez.
She’s maybe 5’7” – a little taller than I typically find optimally attractive.
Her hair is jet black, pulled back, tight, in a ponytail.
Her smile is electric, contagious, omnipresent, big.
Her lips are big, luscious, full.
Her eyes are huge, brown, bright.
Her coffee-colored skin is flawless.*
She’s thirty, but looks about twenty-two.
She has an office. In the current configuration of my professional existence, my role doesn’t include an office. Or even a chair. Or even a coat hook. She has, repeatedly, invited me use her office – as a refuge, as a place to sit, to keep my coat, to work. Her office is very private, very remote. I go there, daily. She’s always happy to see me. She always talks, starting up conversations even as I try to let her work. I could be forgiven for thinking she likes me. (You know, likes likes….) But I’m utterly clueless as to whether, how, to proceed.
She has a child. She talks about him.
She lives with the kid’s dad. She doesn’t talk about him. Except, on Valentine’s Day, I watched her make herself up for him. She had forgotten to get him a present. So, she said, she would be his present.
Generally, she dresses poorly. Or at least, she dresses in a manner that doesn’t flatter her (insane) body. She has a big, round, ass. She has a tiny waist. Her hips flare dramatically. Her breasts are c-cups, natural, full.
On Valentine’s Day? She was quite a present. The transformation – from bookworm-y, somewhat schlumpy professional, to turned-out hottie – was complete.
Where, normally, I can barely speak to her, on that day, I could barely look at her.
Honestly: this isn’t me. It’s just so unlike me as to be noteworthy.
So I’m noting it.
* Why does “coffee-colored” mean “the color of coffee after a bit of milk has been added”? I like my coffee like I like the color black – black. But to be clear, her skin is the color of the coffee you get if you order a “regular coffee” in New York.