Chapter 2: How I Met My Blue-Haired Nemesis
We'd seen each other in the mailroom, and assessed each other the way cats do: Sly glances, silent judgement, keeping our distance. I'd lived in my little second-floor studio on 49th and Walsh for seven months and never said a word to her. But I saw her. She was impossible to ignore.
She wasn't like my friends, she wasn't like the folks back home. She was tall and had that mischievous little smirk at all times, like there was something awfully funny going on just a few inches above my head. I didn't need to speak to her to know we had nothing in common.
Every now and then we'd pass each other in the lobby late at night. I'd see her with girls and try not to stare. They were usually petite, pretty, giggling things, though sometimes they looked
