The Argentian

The colors on her face, cerulean from forehead to eyeline, then white across her nose, then blue again, didn’t look like they had been painted on. They looked they were a part of her skin. I knew this couldn’t be true though. Here at the soccer championships, you were an outcast if you didn’t display some colors (I myself had a modest red, white and green Italian flag on my forehead).
But here, she was just another girl. Well, I shouldn’t quite say that.
She was just another girl, who was the number one, top-of-the-charts, pop princess of the year.
I had no idea she was Argentian. Maybe she wasn’t, just a team-supporter. She sure didn’t look South American, but that’s just to play better in White America, even though she was queen here. Here, she could just be another fan, and the paint was a great excuse.
Even with her status though, I was both confused and enraged when she took the Coke cup from my hand and took a sip.

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