The reason she got out of bed this morning was this: She knew that if she didn't emerge from that womb of flannel and brushed cotton at the very moment she did, she may have never left it again.
This was the same reason she got out of bed most days. She knew this didn’t reflect a positive life outlook.
Crossing the cold pine boards on the way to the bathroom she remnded herself she was really very lucky. She had this gorgeous room to call her own, the air was crisp and clean, the sun shining through the window, the coffee was on and so strong she could already smell it wafting up from the kitchen.
She hated when she did this, this roll call of blessings.
She didn’t feel lucky. She felt defeated. And this sense of despair in the face of so many good things made her feel sulky and childish. She hated that too. She had never been one for looking at the bright side when she didn’t damn well feel like it.
She fumbled for the bathroom light and swore when the fan came on instead. The noise was too much, too grating after such a short time awake. Switching the switches she was greeted with silence and light.
The thought entered her head that ‘silence and light’ would be a great title for a song, or a book - if she ever wrote a song or book. She immediately pushed it out. It was too early for that kind of noise as well. She began the process of greeting the world.
She stared in the mirror taking stock of what she had to work with. She looked good. Tired and pretty. Maybe a little fragile -- a bit dark under the eyes. It suited her and she reached past her oversized makeup bag for her toothbrush and headed back to her room to investigate the closet.
She knew she wanted to wear a sweater, a heavy one. She needed to feel encased. Her skin didn’t seem to hold her these days and she wanted reinforcement. She had the desire to feel small, a little lost. It seemed to her it might be endearing to walk about with her hands peeking out of too long sleeves, the line of her neck accentuated by an abundance of worn wool.
Who she wanted to endear herself to, and why, she wasn't ready to contemplate. Rather, she wasn't t ready to acknowledge she had been contemplating both these things for quite some time.
She tugged a cabled sweater over her head and slid worn jeans over pale legs examining the result in the mirror. She didn’t look particularly put together, but she felt contained, armoured. She looked good and people would notice. He’d notice, but think she didn’t care.
Good. She didn’t want to care.
She pulled a wooden brush though her unwashed hair. Twenty strokes, then thirty. She had planned to pull it back, but as it fell it kissed her neck until she was seduced and allowed it to stay there running long and fluid down her back.
And she wanted him to see her then. She wouldn't be the same later, with her cheek colour too high and a smile exploding on her face.
She would not be so perfect. So accessible. So ready to be seen.
And she did want him to see her.
