The red-haired one and the brown haired one had just met in spinning class. Well, not just met: rather, it was the first day they had decided, for some reason, to exchange names. The red haired one had just finished telling a brief story about her childhood on the upper east side. The brown one was jealous, so she stretched and tightened her ass, making it tighter, tighter.

I probably won’t remember your name, just so you know, said the red-haired bitch to the brown haired one, as she grabbed her gym bag to leave. It’s nothing personal.

The brown haired one tried to nod, friendly, but was too busy judging the Red’s waistline in comparison to her own to say anything like no problem or fuck you.

The red one’s name was something like Alexandra and the brown’s something like Meredith but these words attached to their sweaty, inadequate bodies were rendered inconsequential as they studied each other one last time. This took a moment.

And in this moment, thoughts happened like: could I kick her ass? Hers are bigger, but lopsided. She wears too much, and my amount is perfect. You remind me of that bitch in seventh grade and how she fake smiled always. Am I fake smiling? Are we sisters? Are we meant to share ice cream? Are you listening to me?  What would it be like to make love to you? Would I like it? Am I scared that I would? If I punched you in the face, what sound would happen? If we were both eight years old and were up against each other for pretty awards, who would win? What would your talent be? Are we sisters? 

The Red one let this go first. Bye, Miranda. Wrong.

Bye, Vanessa. Very wrong.

They did this on purpose.