"Amanda?" he says.
I look up at him and say "That isn't my name."
He laughs. "I thought that was-"
"That's NOT my name." I repeat without looking back up at him.
I see his smile disappear and he's staring at me.
My eyes are covered in black.
Black mascara.
Black eyeliner.
Black eyeshadow, black bruises underneath.
My hair is no longer perfectly hanging in straight lines from their roots.
They're bent and crooked into a hundred different directions and stuck that way with a half bottle of hairspray.
My cheeks are still rosy the way he recalls, but only because it's cold out and I'm pissed.
I rub my hands in my jacket pocket and pull out a cigarette.
"When did you start smoking?" he asks with the same intent stare, focusing on my eyes.
"I don't smoke." I say, still avoiding his gaze and sucking hard on the end of my cancerous friend.
I'm hurting his feelings. I can tell.
He's looking at me in confusion still trying to figure out how I can't be this girl from his past.
Seconds are passing and he seems uncomfortable.
I haven't moved or shifted weight since I put away my lighter.
I'm fine.
He opens his mouth to speak and all I think is [it better be about the weather.]
I turn my body around so he doesn't say anything.
Another minute passes and I uncross my arms.
We're standing in silence and you can hear the thin paper between my lips burning.

"You're paler than I remember."

He says quietly, after moving his eyes from my protruding hipbones to my neck.

"LOOK,"

I say, and snap around, pelting my cigarette to the ground and grabbing his arm.
I'm in his face and my nose jabs his.

"I AM NOT AMANDA."

And before his chance is gone he searches my face for an assurance that I am her.
The girl he hurt so long ago.
The girl he loved.
He's frantically looking into my eyes back and forth over my pupils and all around my iris.
He sees now.
My eyes are gray.
Like the morning of a funeral.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I've made a mistake. Amanda had green eyes."