"Tiffany," I whine, "Please give me some useful advice here."

Tiffany is currently sitting back in her orange, plastic chair with her legs spread wide and her arms folded neatly across her chest. The sleeves on her jumper are slightly raised which end up showing a slight portion of her half‐sleeve. Her former mid‐back length hair is now cut to shoulder length in choppy layers, pulled back in a ponytail—practically everything about her says badass.

"What do you want me to say?" she questions. "I'm a jailbird from province Askew, you're the highest position there is to be in as a price, and you're asking me to help you about a Pez? I never thought I'd see the day where all three words would be used in the same sentence." 

She laughs and then does a swiveling head motion with a release of a breath. 

"She's different though," I try to say as a defense. 

"But is she a lesbian?" she retorts. Shot. Down. I lean back in my seat and search my brain for something to say. "Yeah, right about now, that should be your main focus instead of how to get with her." 

"But Fany!" I whine and lean forward with my elbows leaned against my knees to hang my head in between my legs. "How am I supposed to know what she's even thinking when she doesn't speak, show any emotion, or respond to my yes or no questions with anything besides a nod? This girl is driving me NUTS and I have no way to curve that damn without forcing her to do something she won't want to do. Do you see my problem now?"