Color blindness

When I entered the dorm room one evening, I found my roommate crying.

 

Sheila and I were the odd couple of roommates my sophomore college year, her junior year. Anytime she left our room, she looked as if she were headed for a job interview. She wore her high heels and carried briefcase. She was manicured, exfoliated, accessorized, coiffed. I was the art major with torn jeans, paint-stained T-shirt and fingernails. She was from Yonkers, New York; I was the smalltown girl.

 

Sheila’s skin was the color of deep rich chocolate that she was fond of moisturizing; I could barely get a patchy tan if I tried to “lay out.” .