A plane takes off. Follows the line of Mt Vic out over the harbour where it is swallowed by clouds. The security light has come on outside. Reflects off the mirror into my eyes. Can’t see myself anymore. Had it all worked out. But the more you think about something the more impossible it becomes. The more the flaws become painfully obvious.
I thought we could’ve met in the park just down the road from his house. I go there sometimes, after leaving him, when the sky’s just streaking white on grey and the air still smells of cold. Pete’d be sitting on one of the swings. He’d turn, look up, eyes open a bit wider. He’d say Sophie? Only he’d already know. I’d sit on the other swing. We wouldn’t say anything. We wouldn’t have to.
Only I can’t be Sophie can I? Because I still haven’t told him. What will he think? A complete stranger off the ’net turning out to be even less of what you expect. But I’d be less threatening wouldn’t I? And more interesting? He won’t mind that I lied.
What if I didn’t tell him first? What if I went to his house instead? He’d feel like he was in control. Be more willing to talk to me. If I make a really good impression maybe he’ll invite me in. I could sit next to him in the living room with the stereo on and feel the warmth through his T-shirt. It’ll be so much easier face to face. Sophie can wait until then.
He’ll decide on the doorstep. So I have to be perfect. I have to look perfect. He can’t see Sophie from school. He has to see a girl he once talked to like she was the only one in the world who could understand. That’s got to count for something.
Systematic at first. The way it always starts. Chest of drawers. Trousers. Jeans. Too scruffy. Want to look like I’m making an effort. But effortlessly. Black is always good. But not too much, with the hair. Every shirt is somehow wrong. Too revealing. Nothing to reveal. A tendency to pop open. Too much like something you’d wear to the gym. Or to school. I have to look older than that. When he opens the door I don’t want him to recognise me.
Black pants started to make me look fat halfway through. It’s downhill from there. In skirts I looked like a brethren or a hippy or a slut or a little girl. And you always have to watch how you’re sitting. It creeps up, the desperation. Don’t realise it but the clothes come off with a bit more force than necessary. They don’t get folded. Drawers ended up on the floor, empty. Stuff from the cupboard too. Each try worse than the one before.
Colours didn’t match. Didn’t have the right shoes. Everything made me look fat. Zip stuck on the pleated skirt and the tears came and if you watch yourself crying you can’t stop. Can’t look away from the mirror. Paralysed, watching bloodshot eyes, face blotching red, eyelids puffing. On the floor, watching this body you have no control over ooze tears and mucus. Pawing at its face. Mouth stretching wide and ugly. In silence. Of course.
If Pete opened the door to me he wouldn’t see someone fascinating or intelligent or important. I will lose everything I almost had because I can’t find something to wear that will make me beautiful.