My Fake Husband
Since she was right in my space, thanks to the previous height talk, I tried to gauge the difference between us.
"How tall are you, girl? You look tiny next to me." Seriously, she was like a little stool.
"Five-foot-four and a half," she said grumpily.
"And a half?" What the hell was "a half"? People usually rounded numbers; Belinda was even adding the fraction.
"The halves matter. It’s half a millimeter, after all." Her explanation amused me. If she had crossed my path as an acquaintance instead of a fake wife, we might have actually had a chance of getting along.