She sat kitty-corner in a coffee shop

You roll your eyes. Conspicuous yet subtle with blue cloth wrapped around your head.
“Don’t stare at me. I’m just another American,” says the secret language of your body
The way your accent lies flat—Nebraskan.

A stranger at home.

I don’t know who you worship. Is your head covering called a burka? Are you hindu?

I keep my eyes downcast. Locked to the keyboard.

Your conversation with a normalboy seems a normaldate. You hate the way people watch you as if your entire existence is abnormal.

I wonder if your name is Abby or more exotic. What counts as exotic?

Again, you catch my eyes wandering
You are a picture from national geographic, stuck on a seat in the local coffee shop.

You hate that I stare—and we’re aware of each other. No attraction, no beauty—just cold difference melded into curiosity.

You consider yourself the curiosity, and have little patience.

You must not watch the gossiping eyes follow me to the counter. My head covering, betraying me another stranger at home, is shorn close to the sides.

Lesbian. Hindu.

Whatever.

You think I stare because we are so different.
And we are.
(thank you Union College.
thank you WASP community.)

But appearances are deceiving.

You roll your eyes.