One More Chance
Two steps, and she's at my side, dressed all in blue save for an orange scarf splashed across her shoulders.
I lean back in my chair to allow her access to the computer, because she is my superior, and because she requires a file from the shared drive. At the movement, my eyes are drawn to the pocket mirror propped at one corner of the screen.
For once, I am slouched low enough to catch sight of my entire countenance in the silvery surface, from one pink-tinged cheek to the other, from metal-framed eyes to closed lips curved upward at the corners.
Maybe it's the natural half-smile that makes you attractive, a little wispy voice tells me, too faint to form intelligible words.
My eyes dart away, to those in the mirror. But my gaze is unable to avoid the low undertone that follows in its rut-like path, cemented by cynicism and decade-long mantras. Perhaps I might even have welcomed it.
You're ugly.
But he says you're beautiful, the ghostly presence retorts as it makes a comeback from the pool of memories at the back of my mind. He always tells you that. You're beautiful, you're beautiful, you're beautiful.
I can't deny that ounce of truth.
More importantly, I can't resist the fact that part of me craves to believe those words. Believe that someone actually cares enough to offer more than the negative affirmation friends feel compelled to give whenever you claim you're fat.
Maybe it's the overwhelming emotional byproduct of knowing that I matter this much to someone else.
There is a sudden hot prickling around my heart as it tightens, matched by similar sensations at the back of my eyes. This feeling is rare and familiar and exquisite all at the same time, and I find my lower lip caught between my teeth.
Don't cry, I tell myself. Not here. Not when your employer's right next to you. I blink hard.
Heat brims up along my eyelids.
"Where's My Documents?"
The cursor flitters impatiently across the screen. I take a deep breath and lean forward, pointing the yellow icon out. My fingers tremble a little. "There."
I'm not half as cheerful as I sound.
She clicks, double-clicks, and I settle back into the cushioned seat, watching windows and popup prompts appear with mild disinterest. The ache in my chest subsides with the distraction. My eyes drift along the bottom edge of the monitor, over the collected dust on the narrow plastic ledge, back to the greyish frame of the slanted reflective surface.
In this new posture, only my lips and chin are visible in the mirror. I attempt a tiny smile this time. The gesture seems new, so very unlike myself.
Maybe, just maybe, I might be beautiful after all.
I lean back in my chair to allow her access to the computer, because she is my superior, and because she requires a file from the shared drive. At the movement, my eyes are drawn to the pocket mirror propped at one corner of the screen.
For once, I am slouched low enough to catch sight of my entire countenance in the silvery surface, from one pink-tinged cheek to the other, from metal-framed eyes to closed lips curved upward at the corners.
Maybe it's the natural half-smile that makes you attractive, a little wispy voice tells me, too faint to form intelligible words.
My eyes dart away, to those in the mirror. But my gaze is unable to avoid the low undertone that follows in its rut-like path, cemented by cynicism and decade-long mantras. Perhaps I might even have welcomed it.
You're ugly.
But he says you're beautiful, the ghostly presence retorts as it makes a comeback from the pool of memories at the back of my mind. He always tells you that. You're beautiful, you're beautiful, you're beautiful.
I can't deny that ounce of truth.
More importantly, I can't resist the fact that part of me craves to believe those words. Believe that someone actually cares enough to offer more than the negative affirmation friends feel compelled to give whenever you claim you're fat.
Maybe it's the overwhelming emotional byproduct of knowing that I matter this much to someone else.
There is a sudden hot prickling around my heart as it tightens, matched by similar sensations at the back of my eyes. This feeling is rare and familiar and exquisite all at the same time, and I find my lower lip caught between my teeth.
Don't cry, I tell myself. Not here. Not when your employer's right next to you. I blink hard.
Heat brims up along my eyelids.
"Where's My Documents?"
The cursor flitters impatiently across the screen. I take a deep breath and lean forward, pointing the yellow icon out. My fingers tremble a little. "There."
I'm not half as cheerful as I sound.
She clicks, double-clicks, and I settle back into the cushioned seat, watching windows and popup prompts appear with mild disinterest. The ache in my chest subsides with the distraction. My eyes drift along the bottom edge of the monitor, over the collected dust on the narrow plastic ledge, back to the greyish frame of the slanted reflective surface.
In this new posture, only my lips and chin are visible in the mirror. I attempt a tiny smile this time. The gesture seems new, so very unlike myself.
Maybe, just maybe, I might be beautiful after all.