You're not going out like that, are you?
Sweats that looked good enough to dance in, suddenly look inappropriate now. It's just across the street, just popping to the shop. Do a bit of shopeen. Except you won't meet smile at halfway curb, force my mouth fall slack. Reassess self in outward-flanking mirror. I'll grab my hoodie.
Except that's only made it worse, hasn't it? Now I look even more like I just crawled out of bed, at an hour much too late, and knowing too well this isn't the kind of crawl-out-of-bed men long for. Women like me, made to order, cross-species-dressing into fireflies. I can only step out with hair unmade if it's been unmade by male hands.
Teasing you, but not fully. I'm put off, since we both know I'm getting dolled up in a minute. And don't see the point of you looking like my slacks hurt you, you knowing how I like to dress up and play pretty. I'll be pretty tonight, but that doesn't give me permission to be unpretty now, and the truth is, I like it too much to argue. Too much. It's why I take long strides out into anonymity, when I get tired of people looking at me. Of face like trombone, of long, lean legs drawing coulda-beens.
Only, I can't say any of that to you, can I? Not the sort of woman to rub face. And you, in the doorway, deciding still whether you're the sort of man to have his face rubbed. I'll change, and I do, but not for you.
You see, underneath my clothes, I am changing already. I am far from you, your daft, fat fingers still playing with buckles and straps. One day wonder where, but be too late then. By much. If I could tell you anything, I'd tell you not rush me, ask, even plead. Had you left me to my slacks, I might've changed more slowly, but you're pressing on me, your slender body too heavy for my ribs.
I change. Then when I come back, peel off my jeans and change again. This afternoon becomes tonight, and looking pretty is no longer optional. Hang up dress to hang down, love the way it clings to my thighs with the same hunger. Except no more of that now. Baby blue stitch, shipwrecked nobody around my ballooning belly.
No way no more to run from it. I'm fat. And you? Not say anything?
Change my mind. Change yours. Loosey-goosey winter dress that tomorrow will be too warm for. Not yet.
Bra. Less? Tits poke like makeshift melons, and I whisper to my smile, so that you don't hear me from kitchen and laugh. Me? Melons? One decent-shape orange, put them both together. You'd laugh, and we'd together, but this is mine here, and I'm not willing to share. Putting my face together to meet the world and not be afraid. It takes time. Much of me.
Rip my tights. Feel sexy pull them on, then decidedly not peeling them off. Catch myself in the mirror. Cellulitic droplets that you wouldn't know when wrapped around low back. Can you see me changing? Are you demurely quiet, or maybe don't see?
Skin-color now, better deception. Plump unceremonious, then --
Whiff of my perfume to remind of better times. All my smells, it seems, are coming in from the past. Running bottom-empty, and then what? Future, I suppose.
Rub in freckles and smiley lines so you'll recognize me when I'm finished, not take out the neighbor's goldfish, instead of I. Simple, because I'm confident in beauty. Or was. Whose thighs now? No time.
There will be nights unslept in, diets to abandon. Lusting after women I think you'd lust after, even though you're not with me. Oh yes, these thighs garroted inside brilliantine pantyhose will take their sweet time, wreak their chaos. Revenge, the inside of panty line.
Line eyes thick with smoke so I look at you like someone else. I make up my eyes like little kickback against pretty, against clean hemline. I'm a rebel when it comes to eyes. Pay homage to my gypsy roots. by a wanton finger-smudge.
Hang my happy-go-lucky around throat, but low enough to swing like freedom, not hangman's noose. Can't stand the pull of world, of expectation, of clench your larynx. My voodoo tribe-seek bought to ward off evil eye, little foreign shop of unmade heart.
And I'm ready. And well before time. I give a whistle and you hum gently impatience back. Smell of coffee - at this hour? Caffeinated and tightly-wound - you're not going out like that, are you?
Normally, I'm ready and out the door in 5 minutes. But every once in a while, I get a bit more time, and weird shit starts happening. Like pictures and words and things. Sorry about that.
