The first time I saw her, she looked like such a teenager. She wore skinny black pants and an oversized school sweatshirt. Her hair was mussed under a black beanie, and her tennis shoes were scuffed and worn in. She was taller than I thought she’d be, too. I felt so old next to her, so short and simple, but there was something about the way she carried herself, the way she took such confident, big steps that forced me to speed walk to keep up with her, the way she either laughed with her whole being or not at all, the way she said, “Hi,” in a way that was both timid and sure. “You remind me of a dog,” she said at lunch, laughing like we weren’t on a first date, like she wasn’t supposed to tell me I looked nice, looked like I did in the pictures. “Like the way you bounce and move.” I wasn’t aware I was bouncing? “No, I didn’t mean it like that,” she says, not with an embarrassed laugh but with a furrowed brow like she wanted me to understand what she meant. “It was a compliment. When I look at people I see animals. My mom is a monkey, I’m a frog, you’re a dog.” I nod. What do I even say to that? It’s only later, when I meet her family and see where she grew up that I understand. She runs her hands across the fur of her dog. It’s a fond touch but rough and it leaves her dog’s fur sticking straight up. He walks away quickly, almost indignantly, but his tail is wagging. I know the feeling. She does that to me too.