At Like a Little: Female, Blonde. Our beloveds, no matter who they are, must be defined first by their sex. Their sex shows us a shape, outlines a silhouette in our minds. The color of the hair comes next: it is what we see first, it is what frames the face, a shade one way or another that might change everything. Blonde, brunette, redhead, black hair. But in truth: The hair is the color of coral. It is the color of honey. It is the color of midnight. When we realize that the four options will never be enough for anything but a cardboard cutout, we move on to other things. We illuminate details, color the eyes, connect the constellations in every freckle. In the comments, we will call out name after name until the truth is revealed or an admin deletes us. The most important thing, though, is where our beloveds stand in space, where we never fail to find them. Perhaps when the beloveds move, the introductory atmark follows; they feel the nervously typed words of others dragging behind them, leaving a path for flirtation to find them. Or, maybe, these words, the ones we are reading now, freeze their muses in place. They are spotted in the same spots forever, and people write about them again and again. Make them into monuments. The brunette is still dancing long after the party ends. The redhead eats lunch at all hours. The blonde reading Like A Little, this very moment, cannot stop reading, wondering if this sentence is about her. If you ever make it to the next sentence, Female, Blonde, I will tell you with no tongue in my cheek: It is. It is. It is.