the first isabel

The first Isabel was dark, with more individual eyebrow hairs
than you could've thought possible, each thick as thread
woven into her skin. And she never plucked them either.
She had common phrases picked up from God knows where,
pretentious remarks that bounced gorgeously over the room,
demi-cliches that, somehow, you couldn't help
being comforted by.

The first Isabel introduced you to the second Isabel, who was
like a film negative of the first Isabel. You could swear she
still had her baby teeth, all blonde hair and elbows. You took her
walking in the public gardens, past cherry trees, black-and-white photographs,
boys eating cotton candy in knee shorts, popular fountains and
buskers with headbands. Later, though, you had to confess that
that was a waste of time-- the second Isabel had
almost nothing to say.

In October, when you met the third Isabel, several things made sense
suddenly, like the colour of leather, dog's leashes in the park, by
Lake Ontario on a day as gray as the water. The third Isabel had shoes
of brown leather, and she sat on a bench extracting a stone, and she
caught you staring and flashed you a smile just the shape and colour of
a slice of auburn apple, and ignored you again. "Goodbye,"
you said to yourself. "Goodbye, third and final Isabel."