Friday, September 2, 2011

Vanilla Grrl With the Sleeve Tattoo

She sits across from me in her NOTLD shirt. And flowy skirt. And flip flops. And glasses. No makeup to hide the crows feet. Laugh/cry lines unabashedly visible.
No manicure. Or pedicure.
Not much intention to conversate either, it would seem.
Litany of questions, barrage of forced laughter. She looks the part. Maybe she’s a stand in?
Talk turns voices swirl. Clatter of utensils against the shabby chic dishes. The thai place was my idea.
Hot waitresses.
She continues to whisper her one wurd responses as I probe. Ever vigilant to find common ground.
Beyond the obvious there is often nothing.
So it is as the revelation occurs. Me, morally superior in such an authentic way that I do not even find myself ashamed at the thing.
Lies, deceit, no remorse, no conscience. Not even so much as an excuse. It simply is. To her. And to them.
To me it is more. Indignity on their behalf breaks in me like a strong tidal wave. Ripped from the bottom of my female soul DEMANDING that she feel the pure wrong of her actions.
To treat them as such, as if they were not even! Inconsequential! This, this, this ~ this is more than mere discord. In this we are separate.
In this, the vanilla grrl with the sleeve tattoo is a world apart from what I know and hold true to be self evident.
She picks up the tab and I let her. I smile at the dreadlocked waitress with the snake bites. I wonder if she’s 21?
Or faithful.

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