SHE-POWER Fiction: The Girl in the Window

The following is a stand-alone piece of short fiction. It is not a continuation of Clarissa and Scott’s story, which will return as soon as I work out exactly where the plot is going.

She looks good. Relaxed. Normal. I hate her.

I don’t have to look in the mirror to see I’m not looking my best. Haven’t for some time now. The weight loss has my ass flat and flabby, and my legs have taken on an unattractive cowboy quality. I never really noticed I was bow legged before. But since my thighs started to resemble other people’s calves it’s become very obvious.

And tits. I have absolutely no tits. I’m all nipples and ribs.

Leslie bends down and I lose sight of her. I remember the layout of the apartment. Imagine where she’s gone. There’s nothing there. No where to sit. What’s she doing - lying on the floor?

I scuttle to the other side of the bush, casting a quick look over my shoulder to make sure the street is still empty. Don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. I stand on tip toes, thinking I just need a better view. Nothing. I frown and expel a cold, smoky breath, which floats around in front of my face. My chest is aching. I’ve been here too long and I didn’t wear enough clothes.

I still can’t see her. It crosses my mind that I might be able to get a better view if I step in and get closer to the light in front of her apartment. No, too risky. I don’t want her to see me. She’d be upset. Would never understand.

I know what some people would think if they saw me here. But they’re wrong. It’s not like I’m some kind of freak or anything. I just feel better if I see her. We used to spend every day together, so that’s not so strange, is it? Wanting us to spend some time together?

I hear the slam of the front security door and the click clack of heels on the steps. I sink back into the bush. Then I see the red coat. The trench I bought her on our last anniversary. Shit, where’s she going? I look up at the window but the lounge room light is still on. Confused, I watch as she rounds the path and slows at the front gate.

I drop to the ground. My knee crashes down onto the sharp jut of a rock, and though the pain is searing and shooting up my thigh, I bite my lip to stop from crying out. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Leslie stops, looks around. can she sense me? I want to stand up, wave my arms. Show myself. If she’d just give me a chance to talk to her, I know we could sort things out. But then she’s gone. Her heels a steady march on the pavement, her coat a beacon in the night.

I groan and stand, my hand involuntarily reaching to rub my throbbing knee. The rock has torn through my trousers and a sticky trail of blood is sliding down my knee. Dammit, these are my new hipsters and one of the only pair of pants that fit me. I want to go home, have a shower, but as I stare after Leslie’s fading figure, I know I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I don’t know where she is.

I hobble to the road, every move of my leg pure agony. Leslie is almost at King Street now. I’m going to have to pick up some pace if I want to keep her in sight. I lock my jaw and start a slow jog to catch up with her. I only make a few metres before the pain slows me down and I change to an awkward shuffle.

Where could she be going? It’s a Tuesday night. She has work tomorrow. She turns the corner and I force myself into a short burst of a run to make up ground. The patheticness of the situation impinges upon my sleep deprived brain. A voice in my head says, “Melanie, go home”, but the anxiety in my gut is stronger and I rationalize that my dump of a share house can be reached by walking down King Street. It’s not like I’m stalking her or anything. I have to go home.

On King Street the harsh glare of the lights, the cars, the neon, rips into my eyes. I almost collide with a guy who’s trying to light a cigarette. He swings his arms away trying not to burn me, his long dreadlocks flapping around his head. I pop up my hood and drop my face to the ground. I can’t afford for anyone to recognise me.

I shadow Leslie for three blocks. We are moving out of the popular cafe strip now and my curiosity is piqued. There’s nothing up here but boutiques, that Japanese restaurant and the Marlborough Hotel. Leslie hates the Marlborough and Japanese food. My pain in my knee has changed to a dull spreading throb. I feel like my leg is swelling up, making room for more pain to punish me. I look around and see a woman staring at me, her eyes taking in the ripped trousers, something changing in her eyes. She moves closer to the kerb and I feel like a leper who’s escaped from the colony.

I look away and am so busy trying not to be seen that I almost catch up with Leslie. She has stopped on the other side of the street. I falter, not sure what to do, then busy myself looking in the shop window next to me. I see it’s a butcher and feel hope no one gets close enough to notice.

Leslie is standing on the sidewalk, digging around in her handbag. She removes a compact and angling it up to the light, checks her face. Satisfied, she closes it and drops it back inside. Now she straightens her coat and with one final fluff of her black curls she’s on the move again. I am considering how much of a lead to give her when she stops and disappears into a doorway.

Running across the road, I slink closer to where she disappeared, trying to think of what’s open here at this time of night. But then I see the sign and hear the music. Casa de Granada Tapas Bar. Just opened according to the chalk board propped out front. I can already see the restaurant is open to the street with bench seats dim, romantic lighting. My heart twists and pounds in my chest. She’s meeting someone.

I look up and down the street, trying to decide what to do. It’s not like I can go in. Hell, even walking past might be too risky. But I have to see who she’s with. My mind returns to the comforting image I saw from the night before. The same image I have seen most nights for the past two months. Ever since she kicked me out. Leslie on her Simpsons beanbag staring blankly at the wall where I know the television is.

Every night I sit outside and imagine we are in there together, cosied up watching CSI or maybe Desperate Housewives, her slippered feet lying on my outstretched legs. I try to forget that she hates me. That it’s all my fault. I imagine her forgiving me, pulling me into her arms, telling me that she sees me not for who I am, but for who I could be. For who I want to be when I am with her.

I make a snap decision, knowing I have no choice in the matter. I move closer and taking a deep breath, cross myself before I dart past the constantine doors, sweeping my eyes through the small crowd on the way. Leslie is seated near the front of the restaurant, but she doesn’t see me. I collapse against the window of the laundromat next door, the hammering in my heart reaching up to grab my throat and deafen my ears with silent screams.

Leslie. My Leslie. On a date. Her eyes locked on another. Her hands entwined. I am dying inside and it’s too much. I lean on the window, feel myself sliding down the icy glass, the image burning my retinas, assaulting my mind. My Leslie betraying me. Betraying us. My Leslie with a man.

Photo by AndyRamdin | Ducked.nl