[ WP ] You work with a girl , and some days she wears glasses with her hair up , other days she wears colored contacts with her hair down . You think she is two separate people . You begin dating one , and eventually `` cheat '' with the other one .

Why do I always trip myself up at the finish line? 
 
 
 You meet a girl, you do right by her, you both take care of each other. That ’ s how things are supposed to work, right? 
 
 
 Sarah was perfect. She was damn perfect. Working at the Gallery, you meet a lot of those hipster chicks – a bar that ’ s an art gallery by day, the crowd we draw is pretty interesting. My boss puts up the help wanted sign for a day and a half, and then in walks this solid 10, this mix. She ’ s easily 5 ’ 9 in her look-at-me heels, with straight brown hair that frames her face and crests her shoulder blades. And her eyes are so green, so piercing, they could snap you in half with a well-timed gaze. I watched her walk in, speak to my manager, and walk to the back without a single breath or blink. She must ’ ve thought I was nuts, completely nuts. But, then again, she must know the effect she has on men. 
 
 
 The next night, she was at my side behind the bar, almost too beautiful to look at, but so quiet and soft spoken, she was like a lovely ghost. She smiled at the patrons, and they all leaned close to catch her gentle words – this enraptured me all the more. I imagined myself holding her close and letting those eyes unfold me. 
 
 
 It took a week and a half for me to speak to her, and you know what, I ’ m not that bad with women to begin with. We were doing inventory, and my boss popped out of his office and told me he ’ d need me to start coming in early to help set up the tables and chairs before the gallery became the Gallery. I saw Sarah smile widely, and I asked her what she was smiling about. She looked surprised, and I realized this might be because I hadn ’ t even introduced myself to her yet. What a fucking idiot. 
 
 
 “ I ’ m Mike, ” I said, recovering. She smiled into her words. “ I know, ” she cooed. 
 
 
 She asked me to walk her home. 
 
 
 She had to know, she just had to know what she was doing to my mind. I didn ’ t know a thing about her, but I just couldn ’ t stop myself from looking at her all the time, thinking about her and counting down the hours until I saw her at work. We walked through the quiet street, the lamps illuminating her face, the inviting lines of her cheeks and inevitably, the cat-like eyes that gazed up at me. She interlaced our fingers, and welcomed me into her bed. 
 
 
 I woke to bright daylight and a cold bed, soft sheets and a fluffy comforter. She had left a sticky note of the screen of my phone, which informed me she had to go, but that I was welcome to food or coffee and that she would see me later. She had drawn little hearts at the bottom of the note, which gave me a blood rush and put my skin on pins and needles. 
 
 
 I explored her apartment a little, the small efficiency with even smaller furniture, the expanse of books that lined her walls, her tiny makeup bottles, perfumes, contact trays, and hair creams that neatly sat in her medicine cabinet, almost too perfectly arranged. I lay for a moment with my face in her pillow, breathing her in, before departing and beginning my countdown to seeing her again. 
 I got to work two hours early, to help with the set up. It was weird to see the place so lit up, full of the daytime folks I wasn ’ t used to anymore. Sarah ’ s perfume was still on my neck. 
 
 
 I walked into the back to grab the tables, and I saw her. I had to double-take; she was the kind of girl you might miss at first glance. She was pulling her purse out of the employee rack, and replacing her book. Her hair was tied into a high, curly bun, with tendrils delicately falling out and resting on her cheeks. Her glasses were wide, the kind you may ’ ve gotten made fun of for in 2000 but could now wear in a totally socially acceptable way. I couldn ’ t see her eyes, or make out her frame under the chunky sweater she had wrapped herself in. She was maybe 5 ’ 6, and seemed more hurried than she should ’ ve been. There was nothing remarkably beautiful about her, individually, but somehow, you just wanted to look at her. She looked the way brown sugar tastes. Suddenly, she turned, and met my eyes. She smiled like she had been waiting her whole life to see me. 
 
 
 Her eyes were melted chocolate, and they begged me to come closer. I felt disarmed, afraid, unwilling, but already lost. She took a step toward me before my boss appeared and insisted I hurry the hell up. Her smile dropped for a moment, but she hurried over to me, kissed my cheek, and told me she ’ d see me later. “ I ’ m…Mike, ” I managed, completely bewildered. She laughed a gilded, gentle laugh. “ I ’ m Sarah! ” she said, with an overly formal handshake. She vanished out the front door, and I felt my entire body tense and surge with fear. Why is everyone named Sarah? 
 
 
 My Sarah, my perfect, knockout Sarah, arrived four hours later, her red smile embarrassing me for no reason. She was too beautiful, too much, too perfect. “ Sorry about earlier, ” she breathed in my ear, and kissed my cheek, just as the other Sarah had. I felt the pit of guilt in my stomach. “ No, don ’ t worry about it at all, ” I mused, and I smiled at her. “ If you want, ” she purred, “ maybe you could come over again tonight. ” Her eyes flashed. “ Yeah, I ’ m down, ” I said, too quietly, too aware. For some reason, I couldn ’ t get the other Sarah out of my mind. 

