Debra E. Reigle

Her name was Debra E. Reigle.

I didn't know why her parents decided to delete three letters from her first name, but I did understand her last name. Reigle. Regal. She was a queen among peasants, a duchess among commoners. And the moment she walked into my zoo, I remembered why one would set aside a plot of land simply to appreciate the beauty of nature.

Debra was a special girl. Her favorite animal was the peacock, one of the smallest and least impressive animals in the game, and that spoke volumes about her personality. She was subtle and understated, the type that flirted by drawing her skirts about her ankle and knew the names of Baroque composers. She had hair that flowed like melted dark chocolate and a hand that could penetrate chain-link fence. Presumably she wore glasses only because the sparkle in her eyes could fell a grown man. Unfortunately, that awful bitch behind her showed up in the same outfit and then made a presumably vulgar right-angled arm gesture at poor Debra. What does that mean? Is she calling Debra a square? God, I hate that bitch.

 Debra took a special interest in pondering the nature of the camels. Uninterested in her surroundings, even the whore who stole her outfit idea, she went into a trance that has been unmatched by even the most dedicated of computer programmers working slightly drunk at 4 AM. She embraced them with their eyes, bathing the desert beasts in a warm glow of sunlight the likes of which we will never know. I wish she could look at me the way she looked at those camels. Unfortunately, I was no more visible than the normal microbiota that presumably covered her virtual arms. Her pixel-perfect virtual arms.

What? I'm not made of granite.