The girls in Brisbane wear little to nothing to cover their insecurities. Their bare skin aches and cries out for acceptance. Am I beautiful? Am I good enough? If you have to ask with your breasts and thighs, then no.
The girls in Queenstown are not from Queenstown, but from just about everywhere else, they drink too much to make up for their lack of substance; they travel too much to make up for their lack of personality; they moved here for adventures but find only the same problems as back home. (But they are quite nice at least, and can one ever travel too much anyway, really?)
The girls in Auckland are quiet, reserved. They are self aware and beautiful. They are a mystery to me.
The girls in Abu Dhabi are covered from head to toe, yet their beauty still permeates their black robes. Their figures shout out from beneath like doves, ready, waiting to be released. Their hips sing me a song of strength, of power. They lie in wait of triumph.
The girls in Milan, you can recognize by their heels, 6 inches, at least. Glamazons, every one. Can you fly from Abu Dhabi to Milan in six-inch heels while pushing a stroller and still look good? Still look like the baby in your arms couldn’t have possibly been in your belly 8 months ago? If you’re from Milan you can, and you can hush the child with the grace of the Madonna without even breaking a sweat.
The girls in Paris are always too young, and always too old. Their cheeks are sunken in from the cigarettes. Their hair is a mess. They wear no makeup except for their red lips, as if to say Je m’en fou. They are always dressed impeccably, understated, but perfect. They unashamedly look down on me as we ride the Metro together but apart. Their eyes say they are better than me, and maybe they are.
Maybe they all are.