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Thursday, October 30, 2003Numonic Device, Route 7 She sits slowly, adjusting her skirt so that it's smooth across her knees, then, carefully crosses her legs at the knee. She's amazed, really, at how different clothes make you act. If she were wearing jeans she'd be slouching, a long skirt she'd be more relaxed, fluid. In the knee length plaid skirt and black stocking she felt very school girlish, and so she sat as proper as possible to sit on a slat garden bench, waiting in a sub shop for her order. A group of men come in, and she looks at them out of the corner of her eye. Not one of them you'd cross the street to get a better look at, but they smell so good, their clean scent of soap and laundry detergent overwhelming in the small space. It doesn't create a sexual, or even sensual feeling in her, but she wants nothing more than to wrap her arms around one of them and just breathe. She realizes her face is hot, and that, combined with the strange, lonely longing, just makes things a little worse. As she takes the bag of sandwiches off the counter, she pirouettes neatly, full circle, and leaves, not knowing if the longing for warmth and comfort and peace that the scent brought her was a desire for companionship, or brought by the fact that's the way she always feels when she does the laundry. She prefers that it might be the laundry, because that, the constant white noise and warmth given off by the machines, the waiting helped along by a good book, is something she can actually have. Permalink Cindy scribed this at 3:25 PM 0 comments |