I blamed it on a 5’11 Dutch model but to be honest, it was his fault for liking Dutch models in the first place. <\/p>\n
She was glossy and gorgeous and every time I saw one of those ads <\/em> I’d have to deal with it. A billboard sized it<\/em> with slim hips and thighs and an airbrushed face. <\/p>\n I’d always think the same thing. “Well. She has<\/em> to be thin. If she gains weight she’ll look like a man.” I’d say it to myself. Maybe to Eliza, who bore the weight of the whole will-he-or-wont-he (fall in love with me) conundrum. My friend would listen and she’d drink more beer. Not because I drove her to it or anything (although a lesser lady would have succumbed) but because that’s what Germans do…listen over lager. <\/p>\n He was leaving the country every few weeks. To go here or there. The stick in stilettos moved around. And he moved with her. Then he’d come home and confide in his friend.<\/p>\n I’d pretend not to love by pretending to care. I’d bite my tongue and flutter my lashes and wonder ‘If I had legs like her, would he still call me mate?<\/em>‘ <\/p>\n