How I Met Your Auntie K

"I aspire to eat vegetables," sighed Brunette, in a tone that suggested she was about to be clever. "and that's the same as eating them, right?"

Redhead giggled, and provided the obligatory eye-roll. "It isn't, though."

"If you loved me, you'd support my choices." Brunette snatched an egg white and kale wrap from under the refrigerated counter top, and swanned over to the cash. There, the two women began flirting with Barista Beard-o. With their backs now to her, Amanda could no longer hear what they were saying.

They: A duet of feminine giggles.

He: A macho guffaw.

The cash register sang. Banter was exchanged as Brunette and Redhead exited, coffees in hand. Redhead backwardly waved their thanks at Beard-o, who blew them a farewell kiss.

Amanda watched the two women move down the street from her position in the corner of the shop. With snow falling around them, their long coats, and tall boots absurdly furry for the Toronto winter, they were stock photo female friendship.

She'd never had that. Someone to walk through the snow with while clutching a coffee. Forget the ride-or-die BFF that every other woman seemed to have: she'd had no awkward sister, or distant cousin, or co-worker-she-was-friends-with-because-they-couldn't-escape-each-other, either. Amanda worked in a male-dominated industry, had only her father and a younger half-brother.

Additionally, Amanda had discovered that she was the type of woman that other women instinctively take a dislike to. There were several reasons for this, her research suggested: she had found that her male colleagues generally responded to her more positively in a short skirt, so she was rarely out of one. She wore high boots to toughen up the look of the skirt, and couldn't gracefully accept – or smoothly give – a compliment. Her hair was cut in a style that suggested she was about to complain to the manager, and her eyeliner was often uneven and smudgy. She disliked all animals, and her default response to them was to flatten herself up against a wall until they'd vacated the area.

But more than all these traits, the fact that she'd never had a female friend meant that her desperation for one was pathetically palpable. Every new female acquaintance was a potential Rachel to her Monica, the prophesied bestie with whom she would share everything. Every friendly waitress, every neighbour encountered in the laundry room, every woman who stopped to ask her for directions. All were met with a smile that told them Amanda had been waiting for them all her life. As a result, most women who crossed Amanda's orbit spent the first few minutes of a conversation with her wondering if she was selling something, or about to bring up Jesus. Interestingly, Amanda had discovered that the city was full of women who had urgent phone calls to make, a boyfriend or cat waiting on them at home, or a hard-ass of a boss who was watching them from the back and who would yell at them if they paused to talk to customers for too long.

But that would change today, surely.

Over the weekend, while halfway inside a bottle of Niagara merlot, Amanda had created a profile on SaturdaySister.ca, a site that specialized in introducing women looking for platonic friendships. She had been directed to use three adjectives to describe herself, and had chosen career-driven, ambitious and practical from the available options. She'd hoped these would make her seem important and aloof, rather than... whatever she really was. Against her better judgment, she'd used a real picture of herself, carefully angled to make it look as if someone else had snapped it. She'd called herself Cass, a name she felt carried more weight than her own. And now she was waiting to meet K, the woman whose picture portrayed her in profile, poised to jump off the end of a rickety cottage dock. K wore a green tankini, auburn hair falling just past her shoulders. Someone else had taken her picture. She radiated potential, and Amanda burned to know her.