She hands out business cards with a simple line drawing of her figure, what she thinks of as Pay Per Prick advertising. They always say the same thing. What are YOU doing here, they always say. So certain their impersonal desire for her is opportunity knocking on her door, if only she would get up off her back and answer it.
They said the same thing when she worked the food cart in the financial district, enduring their looks, their stupid jokes alluding to the size of their cars, cocks and paychecks: What are YOU doing here, they asked, their eyes opened wide to drink her in.
The same question has followed her all her life, like a small brown dog trotting at her heels. Her father, standing in the doorway of her bedroom, the strange singsong way he spoke, the house quiet, seemingly hushed with expectation: Whar are YOU doing here?
She was thirteen then, the question already familiar to her, asked as it was by her brother, the friends of her brother, the friends of her father. What are YOU doing here? they asked, not caring about the answer, maybe not even asking her but themselves, finding the answer in the sound of the door closing, the zipper unzipping, the bed creaking.
What are YOU doing here, she says to the mirror, to the perfect reflection that is not living up to its promise, that is not providing the way out they are all so certain is there, if only she knew where to look. But her reflection is silent, knowing there will be time enough to answer when they stop asking the question.
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Comments
The last line says it all.... (and I know those girls now)
I loved this, as i do all your posts.
In that regard, you are larger than Con Ed, PG&E, and TVA all rolled together.
I have determined it is impossible to read what you've written without some emotion popping up. Smile or grimace, joy or fear, it doesn't matter. I feel like I am a guitar and you are Carlos Santana, the way you always play me with your words.
To steal HIS words, you're so smooth.
Thumbed.
Rated
Your words are lovely as always :)
Maternally, I want to hug you. As a friend, I'd like to take you out for some wine! Mirrors suck!
fab, cap'n, kite, greg, monique, thanks so much
Bill, I can think of no higher compliment than to be the recipient of Carlos Santana's inimitable words
stim, I appreciate that you counted the paragraphs; my typical sin is wordiness, and it takes some doing to cut it down to 5
Robin, xo
Trig, they keep trying to get me to believe that, and I keep resisting
littlewillie, that pretty much sums it up, doesn't it? Of course I could say that about Steve's comment too.
Steven, thanks. Most men don't know the half of it - you'd be surprised what your pack brothers get up to, when no other males are around.
Just Cathy- hugs and wine go well together ;-)
Really nice work, Sandra. You can get more out of less than anyone that I know when it comes to writing.