Hi, I’m the Female Love Interest in This Student Film. This Is My Story.

Um, hi! Ha. I’m so…awkward. I mean, I’m not

This picture was taken in front of the taco truck we go to every day because I looooove tacos so much and eat 12 every day! Yet, my elfin figure stays intact.

Um, hi! Ha. I’m so…awkward. I mean, I’m not. I’m just…I’ll stop talking. Blah! Okay, let’s start over. I’m Eliza, or Eloise, or Emmaline, or really any “E” name that reminds you of the sound of the wind on a cool spring day, or the elusive girl in your film theory class that sits in the back and says nothing but is inspiring nonetheless.

So…where to start? I’ve got so much to say, yet nothing at all. Sometimes I’ll just give you a look that conveys everything I want you, Oliver or Owen or something, to understand about me. Or sometimes I’ll just give you a wry look and say, “Life. A tragically beautiful sentiment created by a cynic.”

But you will still hear my voice whispering in the wind as you walk to your Experimental Film Theory class every Thursday morning.

I guess I’ll start by telling you where I’m from — and the answer is nowhere really, yet everywhere in between. But probably Dayton, Ohio. Or somewhere near Lake Michigan. Or Northern California. My mom was a waitress and we moved around a lot because of my dad’s frivolous thirst for life. He never did like staying in one place for too long. It’s funny — I think that’s where I get it from; this unquenchable thirst for life, for everything in it. He’s also the reason I exclusively date artists.

If we’re ever taking a walk in the park together, please be prepared for me to jerk your arm towards a jazz band playing under a nearby cherry blossom tree. I will most definitely dance with the one baby dancing and take off the bassist’s hat and put it on my own head. Everyone will laugh with delight and you will just look at me and think, wow, what did I do in my sad artist’s life to deserve a girl who almost exclusively wears jean.

We’ll be in a museum together and I’ll sob at the sight of a Renoir. You should pretend to understand the emotion those delicate lines and brushstrokes bring out in me, even if you’re thinking about how you’d really rather be playing Grand Theft Auto instead of being at this museum where a woman named Tahfi sold you a cappuccino. When she handed it to you, your fingertips brushed against one another. It was bone chilling. Primal. Almost penetrative, even. It caused you to feel cynical and bitter about your childhood growing up in the suburbs of Philadelphia.

Later that night, as an extreme close-up of my perfectly imperfect crooked teeth was in effect with the dewy, afterglow of sex still prevalent in my smile, you thought about Tahfi. After I eventually disappear and give you no notice other than a note in which I leave you a pressed flower and an old ticket from the Barenaked Ladies concert we went to, you’ll meet Tahfi again. You won’t marry her, though. You’re too busy trying to throw together some B-roll for your submission to Sundance, or managing a bike shop. This is why I freak out about our relationship in a CVS parking lot right after you bring me to your cousin’s wedding as a plus one.

Anyway, enough about me! I talk about myself too much. How…how are you, Sebastian? I assume that’s your name. To tell the truth, I’m not really sure why I like you­­ — I’m so full of joy and happiness and the color yellow, and you’re literally a sad sack of potatoes with dark hair.

But that’s just what makes you so intriguing and thought-provoking.

When we have sex, it is always going to end with me laying my head on your chest and tracing a delicate pattern over your lips with my elegant, long fingers. A two-shot on that, for sure. Your sensual, loving lips. God, that mouth, I say with an air of wonderment. For some reason. That mouth that routinely recites women’s jokes back at them only moments after they have said them the first time. That nose that can smell the scent of a woman in a floral sundress from a mile away who just wants to be left alone––she isn’t listening to The Smiths on her oversized headphones, but instead, Hilary Duff’s classic album, Metamorphosis. But she’ll let you think that she’s listening to The Smiths. I let you believe I listen to The Smiths.

I could go on, but for now, I’m going to go stare at a cloud in the sky and wonder how many more skirts I can make out of jean.

The Smiths discography is essentially my siren song to lure you in.

Kate Schulman is a student and aspiring comedy writer. She hopes to get a job after college and knows all the words to the rap verse in TLC’s song, “Waterfalls.”