Candice was one of those girly girls. You know the type. They wear dresses even during winter and they gather heat from the residual warmth of their long hair that they spent an hour curling in the morning.

Candice lived across my apartment unit for a short time. I met her when she was standing out in the hallway in front of her door, her tiny Shih Tzu Bichon trying to gnaw its leash off.

"Hi," she said as soon as she saw me. "I'm Candice."

I shook the tiny hand that she offered me. "I'm Sam," I told her.

"Wow, it's so nice to actually see a fellow Asian my age in this complex," she breathed. I smiled and absent-mindedly played with my keys.

"Are you Filipino, too?" I asked. I surveyed this chick. Even with her stilettos, I could tell that she was shorter than me by about an inch, and that is saying something. She was also more petite, which was even more of a surprise. She was all dolled up and I inwardly cringed when I realized I had no makeup on, my hair was in a messy bun, and I was wearing an over-sized sweater, sweatpants, and flip flops that had been slightly mangled by a cat's claws.

"Oh my gosh, yes!" she exclaimed. Her dog let out two nonthreatening yips, startled by its owners excitement. "Which part of the country are you from?"

We learned that we both came from the same island. She got even more excited. I guess I was, too, but not really. I did not want to speak in my native dialect with this chick. We had already started out talking in English. I didn't like shifting. Thankfully she didn't switch.

"We should totally hang out some time," she said.

"For sure," I said. I learned that from Sara, my roommate from when I lived in a two-bedroom unit. Sara rarely said yes, no, maybe, or you're welcome. Her go-to was always 'for sure', and I picked that up after a few months of living with her. I also picked up her music snobbishness, and went through half a year of listening to nothing but indie or whatever I could Shazam when she was blasting songs from the bathroom.

I quickly found out that Candice and I had very little in common. Besides our adoration for cute dresses that were out of our price range, I couldn't really keep up with her. We were both bookworms, but while I read a lot of fiction, she devoured books on subjects like economics and business. We couldn't really book swap.

We hung out at her place a few times. She had no qualms taking pictures of herself on the full-length mirror, me sitting idly by the side watching her. She liked to bunch up her shirt and tie it around the back, exposing her thin waistline. She would strut around the living room in her high heels, placing a stack of her business books in the background, and then taking a dozen pictures, which she would then filter like crazy on Instagram.

"Ugh, this is so frustrating," she would say, pinching her navel. She wouldn't really gather much flesh between her fingers. "I ate, like, half a cheesecake last night but it's like I just can't gain weight!"

I struggled not to roll my eyes. "Are you trying to gain weight?" I asked.

She studied her reflection in the mirror, hands on her hips as she twisted from side to side. "Well, yeah. But it's so depressing when it won't happen. I eat like a pig, but I always stay slim. This has always been flat my entire life," she said, rubbing her exposed belly.

Was she for real? My eyes traveled down to her ass, and it reminded me of pancakes. Not the fluffy kind. I guess her belly wasn't the only thing that stayed flat.

"You should probably eat more carbs. Pasta and bread. Take on an Italian diet, you know?" I said, shrugging. "The Old Spaghetti Factory's Garlic Mizithra is the tits."

I dragged a lawn chair outside and sat down by my front door one night, hoping to catch some fresh air, when Candice comes tottering around the corner on her black stilettos. She looked upset.

"My boss is such a jerk," she opened. "I should go to HR. What he said to me was basically sexual harassment."

I nodded. I didn't want to nod, but she seemed like she wanted me to egg her on.

She leaned against her door and clutched her temples, as if battling a headache. "He said that he was really impressed with how I dress up everyday and that I should be, like, an example for all women in the workplace."

My eyes darted from side to side. Am I missing something?

When I didn't say anything, she stomped one high-heeled foot. "Right?!"

I didn't remember agreeing to anything.

"What a pig, huh?" she said dramatically.

"Mhmm," I said quietly. I did not say anything else. She took that as a cue to open her door and step inside.

"I'm going to read this new micro-economics book that I just got," she said, tapping her large purse. "You have a good night."

I decided that I had enough fresh air for the night and retired to my bedroom.

The next day, I found Candice in her crop top, skinny jeans, and black heels sitting on her stoop. She was busy reading Principles of Microeconomics with her fake hipster glasses on.

"What up, Candice," I said raspily. I really did not want to talk to her today. After a long day at work, I I had planned on dropping my pants, taking my bra off, and jumping into bed with a cup of hot cocoa while marathoning Weeds on Netflix as soon as I got home. That's one thing I preferred telling people--I don't binge watch shows, I do marathons. It sounds more active and less sad that way.

She looked up from Principles of Microeconomics and smiled up at me. "Hey, Sam. Whatcha up to?"

"Oh, you know," I said, swinging my arms like a drunk gorilla. "Just got off work. About to shower and make dinner. How's the book?"

"Halfway done. It's a very challenging read," she said airily. She probably wanted me to be impressed.

"Are you reading that for fun or for school?" I asked. I knew she was taking classes at Sierra but I didn't know why exactly.

She shook her head and closed the book. "Just for fun. Enriching myself with practical knowledge."

In my opinion, practical knowledge involved learning how to make fire out of sticks and learning different types of knots. You know, in case the world reach singularity and the robots decide to cut off all source of power. You wouldn't believe how handy fire starting and knot tying can be then.

"I bet the guys find that hot in a woman," I joked.

I must have said the wrong thing, because she huffed and puffed like a wolf ready to blow a straw house down. "You can't even imagine! Do you know how hard it is to find guys who are into me for more than just sex?"

Jesus. I visibly slumped, but she didn't notice. "Gee, Candice, tell me about it," I said dryly.

"They see these hot pictures of me online but once we go on a date and they find out I'm into reading professional-level books, they turn tail and run," she said, indignation oozing through her voice. And what did "professional-level books" mean? Did she mean Principles of Microeconomics?

"I don't know why they'd do that, Candice," I supplied, "you're clearly a catch." I hoped my voice didn't sound robotic.

She nodded anyway. A part of me wanted to channel my inner Regina George, because her reaction reminded me of that scene in Mean Girls where Regina complimented Cady and Cady thanked her, prompting Regina to ask, "So you agree? You think you're pretty?" But I held back.

"I think guys can't handle me being a contradiction to everything they believe is sexy," she said, shaking her head.

"What do you mean?" I asked. I was starting to wonder if she was high.

She stood up and held her arms out as if to say 'Look at me!' Then she waved her book.

"Duh! I wear heels and I read smart books," she said as-a-matter-of-factly. That tone I did not appreciate.

"Candice, you do know that heels and books don't contradict each other, right? It's like apples and oranges," I said slowly. "Did you think you can't look sexy and be smart at the same time? It's not a dichotomy."

She looked offended. I can tell by the way her eyebrows furrowed and her mouth opened with a slight sneer.

"I'm sorry, but it's not a special snowflake moment. I don't think those guys ran because of your heels and the books you read," I told her and then threw in a Kanye shrug for good measure.

"I don't believe you get what I'm saying," she said.

"No, no, I get it," I said as I started to turn my key into the lock on my door. "You're saying girls who read aren't expected to wear stilettos. Or that girls who wear nice shoes are dumb. I may be reading far too deep into this, but it's what I've gathered anyway."

I may have insulted her, because she turned in a huff and slammed her door shut. I did not hear or see Candice after that. She may have moved. Besides, who would want to live across a self-important bitch?