Story Short: Shallow

You want to be attractive, I know. I know this. You’re not.

No. No. No. Don’t cry. I don’t say this to be cruel. It’s objective. Your numbers just don’t add up. The stats, they don’t lie. If you don’t have the figures, you don’t have a figure. You’re really not that attractive.

It’s not that the numbers are off by a lot. Just off. Just enough. It’s not for your lack of trying. You diligently gag all your food up after lunch at Five Guy’s Burgers. You make sure to brush your teeth quickly too. No one smells the vomit.

You try to be slim and slender and perfect but there’s still cellulilte there. And there. And do I have to point out there? Small patches of cottage cheese you try to ignore, to hide, because it doesn’t fit in with your scheme of who you are. It’s not you...you don’t see it, thus, it doesn’t exist.

Your right breast is noticeably larger than your left one. And it’s a pointer. It sticks out, pointing to the right. A wayward tit, which might not be so noticeable except...both of your breasts somehow defy gravity.

Your nipples are terribly hard. ‘Knock on them and they knock back’. I find no pleasure in squeezing them for, they can’t be squeezed.

Your lips are perfect in that swollen, cosmetically enhanced way. Puffy and pouty but still kind of off. As if Nature has stamped them as fake, somehow, for all to see, so we know when we look at them and the momentary rush of attraction wears off, we can realilze they’re not normal.

But then, not normal is your normal, isn’t it? It’s what defines you. Your dead, soulless eyes. Pretty, yes, but vacant all the same. You never seem to look at anything. You see things but I don’t think you ever really look at any of the things you see.

You like shoes. And Coach. Names of things, of brands, define you. You seek to be that which you see on some TV show or another. You want your 15-minutes and a new pair of shoes or a new bag will do that for you. You have to be ‘in’ because if you’re not ‘in’ then you’re ‘out’ and you don’t want to be ‘out’ because you wouldn’t be able to stand yourself.

Other women, those women you don’t like are ‘bitches’ or ‘hoes’ or ‘sluts’. You put them down in order to raise yourself up. The clothing they wear is so much ‘trashier’ than yours. You have style. You have taste. They have....tramp stamps.

You have a tramp stamp. You call it a tattoo.

Wrinkles are a sin against God which is why you pray at the Church of Botox. You avoid panty lines the way you avoid panties.

You live for looks, even when the looks come from those clearly beneath your contempt. That guy in the wifebeater with the dirty feet, wearing the summer flip-flops and the frayed ratted jeans? Yeah, him. The one with the week’s worth of stubble. You loved every second of his eyes lingering over your body, every inch of it, as you walked by. You imagined his imaginings. He wanted you and that’s just how you like things. You live to be wanted. You dismissed him though. He looked like herpes, you thought. Or at least, the way you thought herpes would look, if it looked like a man.

You didn’t say that much to me. All you said is you were done. I heard the stories, as they made their rounds. How you said I was going nowhere and if there was one place you didn’t want to be it was nowhere, with me.  How you had given it your all, as if that was something you knew anything about, your all. Hell, you admitted to cheating on your SAT. How many times had your breasts gotten you out of a traffic ticket?

You said my shoes were old and they shouted to the world that I was stupid. You came louder and harder, gushing almost, when you bought a new pair of shoes than for anything I could ever do to you, for you.  Fucking shoes. I often had this recurring dream. I was a puppy. The only puppy you’d ever love and you loved me with all your heart. I chewed up all your shoes and those I didn’t chew up I pissed and shat on. And you cried and cried for days and days but you loved me anyway.

I gave you four years. Maybe they weren’t the best four years of my life but they were my four years to give. I gave them. They’re gone now. Along with any smiles you ever gave me. I reach back, hard, to find one. All I remember was the stress of trying to please you, of trying to win your love.

Your voice came out of nowhere. Carried on the air. Surreal, it seemed, so much so I felt a sudden chill of terror run down my spine. Was it that I was going mad? Where did your voice come from on this cloudy November day, calling my name? I looked around, and then, to the left of me, I noticed the stairs, leeding to the alley between the shops. There you were, down on the ground, ankle are bent askew. A broken heel lie behind you. Your mascara was running from all the tears you’d cried. You sat at the bottom of the stairs, in a leaf-filled pudddle from last night’s rain. You looked up at me, longingly. You tried to smile, tried to use your sweet voice, the voice that always told me something was wanted. I felt the bags in my hand grow heavier. A breeze blew and a car honked its horn at the light there up the street.

I saw you but I didn’t look at you.

I turned and walked away. I didn’t look back. 

Copyright 2011, M.R. McCaffery. All rights reserved.