But I'm not a baby, I used to argue. Especially when she would introduce me to the cute boys. God, I don't need them thinking I'm, like, 17. Of course I was only 19. And those boys would still look at me the same, anyway:
But now it's just standard, the baby sister thing. The reactions have changed, though. You guys are sisters? they ask.
Yup. Same dad and everything.
But, she has dark hair. And you have blonde hair.
WHAT? Say it isn't true!
And your noses are different. And ears. And you're much too quiet to be related to her.
I call it "reserved," thank you.
She's the cute one, my sister answers, as they stare at us quizzically.
And then I blush, and they don't understand why she's so pale compared to me.
You guys both have the freckles, though.
Phew! Man. I was hoping there was something. You had me worried!
We're like coffee and milk, her and I. I'd prefer to be the coffee, if I had the choice, but I'm sure she wants it. So I'll be milk. She's hot, I'm cold. I do a body good, she wakes you up in the morning. Really quite opposite for sisters.
But coffee and milk, by the way, go together. Complement each other. Cools her down, warms me up. Tastes better, really.
Oh, OK. Now I see the resemblance.