And then she said…

And then she said…

And then she said…

And then she said…

Readers are advised to listen to ‘Perfection’ by Clint Mansell

I don’t even know her, and yet I want to be everything she is.

She has no name, and yet she is more real than what I am.

I don’t share any of her looks, and I am not her…

…and yet, everytime she touches her lips, I consequently feel my lips pushed upon.

I have never been anywhere near her, and yet, I feel I AM her…

..or, at the very least, I should BE her. 

***

My eyes are locked on her. She walks up to the checkout opposite the one I work. Damnit Mark, why did you have to show her through to your checkout?. I don’t know what I feel toward her; the woman I barely know. I don’t want to kiss her, and yet, at the same time, I cannot take my eyes off her. She is magnetic, I cannot stop thinking about her, her, HER. HER looks, those golden orange ringlets of perfectly symmetrical hair, her sun-kissed skin, chocolate-brown freckles, camellia-red lips and apparel straight out of the latest line of ‘Tree Of Life’. HER mannerisms, her perfectly-centred walking pattern, but with a flick of the hands every time she takes a step just enough to fool me to believe she is in a fairy garden, and her head resting slightly on her shoulder every time she has someone talking to her. 

And then, as Markus packs the first bag of what looks like at least eight bottles of soy milk (?), coconut water (H2O brand), he asks her the obligatory ‘how are you today?’. 

And THEN she said…

“Jussst fine… thank you!”

Her voice is melodic. The smooth transition into ‘sss’, and then, as she rises her head from her shoulder, that soft-spoken and yet so innocently seductive ‘thank you’, I now have her complete attention, even if she has not attention turned toward me… the girl behind her… the freak staring at her own dusty jeans, desperately wishing for the woman to duplicate her light brown, bohemian-esque maxi skirt so I could hide my lack of fashion coordination. 

I want Mark to ask her another question, I NEED to hear her voice again. I need to hear her melody. I want to be enchanted. I want to be locked into a trance. I want to be hypnotised. I want to be seduced. I want someone to switch my soul with hers, so I can have the less awkward, the less scrawny, the less clueless, the less judged-by voice. I want hers to be mine. I want. I WANT. I WANT WANT WANT WANT!

And THEN she said…

…nothing…

She got out the Rewards card (zapped that) then got out the credit card (tapped that), put all the bags back in the trolley, all with those magical wrist flexes, and glided her way out…

And then…

…nothing…

…

…just me…

…

***

“Excuse me! Could you please pick up the pace? I’ve got to go back to work!” proclaims the woman in front of me, who I am serving, with a jet-black bob and a level of makeup that indicates bubbling impatience. 

“… sorry…”

Here is me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. 

Here is the one that wastes the air that I surround. The one that is easily forgettable. That one girl you walk past and easily, painfully, fruSTRATingly blends into the faux wood panels and the unused black chalkboards lining the customer service area of a Woolworths that no one will ever remember.

No one remembers the girl in scratchy, two-dollar jeans, un-volumised hair and pimple patches in the Woolworths on that busy main road that people only use to get out of the city. 

There she is. There I am. The veiled. Veiled in a vexing forgetting curse. Condemned to melt into the walls and shrouded in an intoxicating cloud of anxious sweat as I utter, “That’ll be $73.67.”

The woman zaps and taps and goes about forgetting the veiled girl that no one will remember. Because, why would she? When I am the least remarkable, why would she expand her cranium beyond the confines of that jet-black bob to remember me? 

I am stuck. I am trapped. I am condemned to be forgotten. Shrouded in unremarkability. Shrouded in the same aura as the dying verses of a rap song trying too hard to land itself on someone’s doomscroll during a 1:30am TikTok binge. 

That’s all I am made to be in this body… forgotten…

…

And the Merida from Brave-lookalike-girl will never be…

…

She swings blissfully on some magic swing in my head rent-free.

…

Fuck me…

***

There I am,

Interrogated by the mirror…

Magic mirror,

In front of my bathroom sink,

Unveil me,

Release me from this body,

Make me HER,

HER,

HER,

HER!

Am I asking to be someone I am not?

Yes…

Is it possible for me to be in her body?

No…

Can I aspire to be her?

Copy her?

Follow in her shadow? 

Manifest her?

Envelope her into me by virtue of burrowing into my debit card?

…

I can try?

***

My paycheck is bled to the point of hollowness. That skirt. That hair band. That crop top, no, THAT crop top. That brand of blush. That lipstick. That curler. That mascara. That pair of sandals. Those earrings. This, this. That, that. Type BSB here. Type account number here. $34.99. $24.99. $12.99 (does it matter I can only afford Shein by this point? Shhhh, don’t tell the ethics police). Email after email after email after email after email after email after email after email after email. Ching, cha-ching, ching, chin-ching. Capitalism! Keep the money machine pumping! More and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and M-O-R-E!!! 

Must

Look

Be

Her…

…

Not 

me…

…

And, by the dim light of my bedside lamp. 

In the malaise of the nighttime shadows consuming my room. 

Spectated by the various socks on the floor. 

I practice that walk. 

The walk. The fairy garden walk. 

I make my bedroom rug a runway, and I aim directly down the centre of it. I straighten out my walk. Must stay within the confines of my rug, don’t sway to the side. Practice smiling. Smile. Smile more! Flick those hands. Flick them harder!... wait… not that hard! Make sure you point your head inwards. Give the eyes a twinkle. Make them sparkle. Make them beautiful. Make yourself irresistible. Make yourself everything she is. Make yourself everything you want…

…

thud

…

And as I lay on the floor. As I stare into the moonlight. As the thought dawns upon me that I bled my bank account dry. As the thought of me changing my walking style slips into view. 

As I transform out of my cocoon on my bedroom floor. 

I realise…

…

…

…

Am I insane!?

…

…

…

And then I said…

…

“No, I’m jussst FINE.”   

by Nathan Colebrook