Context: Tim is sitting in the waiting room at Kutcher Cancer Center reading the only memento from his recently ended relationship— “a dog-eared paranormal romance about vampires and the nubile young girls who love them.”

A girl, of the un-undead variety, plops down in the chair beside me. She has a pixie cut that has been dyed a bright purple. I didn’t see her come in.
    “That book should come with a warning,” the girl says.
    I stare blankly at her for a second. “What?”
    “That book should come with a warning. Like the ones on cigarette cartons.”
    “Why?” I turn the book over, but the back cover is only a blurb and an ISBN number. No warning label.
    She sits back. “Young girls have gotten crazy ideas from such books, you know. All sorts of foolish notions of love and romance and wishes fulfilled without collateral damage.”
    “Really?” I say, brows raised in mock surprise. “They’re fantasy, i.e.; not real. Anyway, I’m a dude. I guess I’m immune.”
    She fakes a sigh of relief and wipes invisible perspiration off her brow. “Phew! You had me worried there. I thought you were a moldable young girl.”
    My attention returns to the page. A few moments later the un-undead girl interrupts me.
    “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you reading that? I could be wrong, but I’m not sure you’re in the author’s target audience.”
    Why am I reading this book? In hopes of some kind of cosmic connection to my ex-girlfriend that will convince her she made the worst mistake of her life? I can’t tell this girl that. She seems like the kind of person who would accept that kind of explanation without question, but still…
    “Homework assignment,” I say.
    She looks skeptical but doesn’t press the matter. “Where do you go to school?”
    “Starling High.”
    “Really? I live in Starling,” she says with a tiny bit of excitement.
    “I don’t think I’ve seen you at school.” There’s no think about it. I haven’t seen her. You can’t miss a bright purple pixie cut.
    “I don’t go to Starling High School. I go to Starling Christian Academy,” she says.
    “Oh.” Are they even allowed to read vampire novels at her school?
    She straightens her back and folds her hands—black nail polish with tiny specks of purple glitter—in her lap. “You seem surprised. Do you find me unbecoming of a Christian school attendee?”
    I shrug. “Well, the purple hair and everything…”
    “There isn’t a commandment against dying your hair.”
    “Are you sure? I think it was the eleventh.” I clear my throat and do my best Moses impression. “Thou shalt not dye thy hair.”
    She laughs again. I could totally get used to her laugh.