More than a woman
January 23, 2012 § Leave a comment
The first days were the hardest.
She’d plan her outfit, right down to the fingernails – Max Factor dusky rose, took her ages to get that right. Deliberated for hours over what to wear. She didn’t want to make the classic mistakes, look like she was trying too hard in a business suit or a tarty dress. You see them around. They’ve always forgotten something – a scarf to hide the adam’s apple, or something – anything – to tone down those giveaway hands.
…and then, as time goes on, you find you could care less. It’s a brave person will say anything to your face, she knows, so she rides out the snickers, the silences, the looks. Shrugs it off those broad shoulders.
Today is not a good day. She’d felt her skirt rip as she got into the car, and whilst now, standing in line to pay for her petrol, she can’t see herself, she’d doubtless not thank you if she could: that cheap supermarket blouse stretched too tight across those shoulders and rucked up at the waist, and that skirt whose zip has split so far her cream lace knickers are on show.
All it would take is one person, just one of them, to tap her on the shoulder and have a quiet word. Nobody does, though. Not a single bloody one of them.
All just stood there gawping.
Go on, get a good eyeful, why don’t you?
She doesn’t hurry back to her car.