I expected that she knew you by the way she carried herself; I can't explain it. My intuition felt you in her and she in you as she peered into me and I back into her. She was all clean lines: grays, blacks, and peaks of the teal that is you that I became entirely too acquainted with. She was buttoned and immaculate; she communicated power, she controlled the room. She wasn't the type of girl that forgot imperative things, like the importance of wearing underwear or packing an extra tube of crimson lipstick.
 I studied her leather bag, assuming that the inside most likely cradled uniquely packaged kleenexes, a battery operated compact mirror, anti-bacterial lotion that was named quirkily after a fruit, and her designer phone cover that encased itself around a history of late night conversations...most likely with you. I bet she knows a lot about e-books, and maybe a thing here or there about rock climbing.
  I am still not made out of magic.
  And I am still too much of a child for
  Some truths.