She was a drama queen. That's a given. She was mellow dramatic, she was self-absorbed, she was obnoxious, she had the attention span of a child.

Nobody truly understood our relationship together, not even her.

I guess there was another side to her that nobody knew.

The way she would shove different objects in the seat of her pants, asking me which looked most realistic. "Does this work? Do I look fat?" And I would try to conceal my laughter at her attempts in bringing curves to her tiny body. As she shoved things from oranges to frozen steaks in her bra and her tight jeans, I would sit close-by organizing papers, giving her the occasional glance, the nod, the regrettable eye-roll. She would parade in front of me and I'd barely pay her mind, with the exception of course of the most awkward choices-or when her Ziploc bags filled with gelatin exploded all over her white shirt.

"It's okay!" She said after the initial shock. She glanced down at her white tank-top, now covered in obnoxious shades of pink and green. "I like it better this way!"

Her clothes were an entirely different story. Her skin tight snakeskin jeans, tailored for a child, always lying about the house. The clothes that I once believed no respectable woman should ever wear were now strewn about my house as if I were the owner. And I wasn't exactly passive- I would tell her the different pieces I sought inappropriate (her 'Shut Up Let's Fuck' t-shirt) and even went to the extent of donating some of the tackier pieces. She never cared, it gave her an excuse to go out and buy more crazy clothes, the kind of clothes I could never even picture in my mind, let alone think to purchase them.

She'd change into something extravagant, and then yell at me from the bathroom across the hall while putting on the brightest red lipstick she could find. Then, of course, if the doorbell happened to ring, she'd drop her tube directly into the sink (which I had previously bleached) and start yelling at the next person to step into our apartment.

I'd try to sit her down and talk about something, and she'd bounce all over the place. She couldnt sit still for more than two minutes- we timed. She was a constant blur of movement, jumping from one scene to the next. Her world was a stage, and she was always the star. I was happy to be working backstage, most of the time, but I guess it got the best of us.

It was a time when we sat down in the kitchen. It was after a long day at work and after a long fight at home. Some small argument that started with dirty laundry and then built into issues about our family. "Maureen," I paused. "Where are you going with your life?"

She looked at me dead in the eyes and told me, "If I wanted to know the exact time and place of my future, I'd be a hard ass like you. But I'm fucking free, Joanne, I'm free to be whoever I want, whenever I want. You can't put a time stamp on that." Then, after grabbing her clutch off the table, she slammed the door.

Dramatic, I tell you.

And I guess I can't tell you exactly why we fell in love. But I know that I'll hopelessly be following her, putting her mixers in make-shift cases, shaping all of her shit into a pyramid, and bad mouthing all of the boys-and girls-that she happens to cast her little spell on. She's mine, my own. And I'm hers.

All of hers.