Allie

Allie's brain was a Ferrari; her body, a wobbly tricycle. This morning, deep in thought about oat milk's socio-economic impact, she tripped on a sidewalk crack. Her pristine white shirt became a pigeon's canvas as she executed an involuntary interpretive dance. "Oh, excellent," she deadpanned, eyeing the mess. "My avant-garde period has officially begun." Then, spotting a handsome stranger, she winked. "Falling for you already, I see. My legs just got the memo."