Sorry, I’m not that girl

We meet each week. Laying on the pavement, he’s waiting for us. He’s often already sleeping when we arrive. Then he wakes up. A large smile lightens his face. We shake hands. Then he tells me : Oh I thought you were the girl from Brasil ! But I’m not that one. Maybe he doesn’t see my blond hair and my green eyes because of the night. Nevermind, your face really look like the girl from Brasil’s one. Funny to heard when I’m often taken for a German or an English girl when I’m abroad. Or even in a store on the Champs-Elysées. Now I’m pleased to think I may look like a Brasilian girl !