Her wrists were
brittle like old rubber bands. The thin
kind, the kind your mother wound around a fistful of pencils twenty years
ago. The translucent and cracking kind. Creaking as she heaved herself up, down, up,
down, her palms carpet-burning on the daisy-shaped Ikea bathmat she’d repurposed
as a living room rug.[1] Ding.
She wiped her sticky forehead with a towel and went to the kitchen where
her Kashi heart-healthy oatmeal was waiting for her. No pesticides, steel-cut, half a teaspoon of
Splenda and brown sugar. She choked it
down like vomit, half of it before unplugging her nose, and slopped the rest
down the garbage disposal. Out the
window, the sun beat her strip of shared lawn into cracked ceramic
islands. No sprinklers in this
heat. Save water, all the signs
said. She saved water in a five-minute
cold deluge under the low-flow showerhead.
Shivering at the slickness of the grease on her cheeks before she scrubbed
it away. [2] Five pieces of clothing lay on her bed,
crumpled Banana Republic dress pants and a Forever 21 chiffon shirt and another
shirt, Target, pink-striped like a baby candy cane. Bra and panties. Push-up bra, Pink by Victoria’s Secret. Red panties edged in white lace, Target, with
a snag where it cut into her left thigh.
Button-down or chiffon. Chiffon.[3] Flowy, nothing to pinch or hug. Only fifteen dollars at T.J. Maxx.
[1]
Fifty-three. Fifty-four. Fifty-five.
Dammit this hurts. Shut up. You need it.
Look at you, look at your arms. They could use you for lipstick and save
the whales. Cheaper than
liposuction. Sixty-two. Sixty-three.
It hurts. That’s good. Burn it off.
Slice it off. Sixty-nine. Seventy.
[2]
Disgusting. You need new cover-up. Maybe that fancy Chanel stuff. Something so you don’t look like Pizza the
Hut. What a great movie. Maybe Brandon would watch it with you. Mark wouldn’t. Bastard.
Not if you shine like an oil field.
No comments:
Post a Comment