The little coquette, she is so desperate to be loved. I would like to say that I don’t see the desperation in her eye. That would be easier. But I know her too well. Granted, she is good at decorating, at covering up her flaws. Her apartment, her body, her personality. Just as easily as she repaints that one yellowed wall in her rotting studio apartment, the wall that hides extensive water damage—painting a rebellious act without regard for the strict rules of her lease—she goes from a dark self-hatred to a blinding smile. She has studied the art of flattery and her acquaintances are, well, flattered by her seeming selflessness. But really, like that wall, like her clothes, like that smile, its just a deflection. If, perhaps, she spends enough time talking about you, if perhaps she looks cute, you won’t notice the extensive damage she’s done to herself, the ugliness those decorations hide.