Jane D.

I’ve seen you sometimes. Not in that pretentious asshole I’ve-seen-the-real-you-and-it’s-beautiful-but-you-don’t-know-it kind of way, I mean, I hope it doesn’t sound like that- I mean in the normal way. Like, when we go out for a walk. (Sorry, I’m making you sound like a dog here, but let me continue my point, please.)

We live in the big city that’s pretty different from that microcosm where we grew up. There are shop windows with all kinds of goodies and fabulous items. Glorious dresses, shiny papers and soft, soft pillows. I see all the people around us and they look through the windows and they see these things. Then I see you and you don’t look through the windows; you look at them. You see your face instead of the blankness of the mannequins, and you see yourself holding all these glorious things, and wearing all these beautiful things. But then you realise that your outlines don’t quite match up to the plastic finery, and every time you see that I see a little piece of you suffer a slight amount of disappointment, and it’s annoying.

For one thing, the plastic is so blank and featureless and boring that it might as well not be there at all. It basically serves the same purpose as a hat stand, yet it’s just a bit skinnier.

For another thing, you probably don’t fit that outline because nobody does, or ever has. What, that thing you see your outline failing to even remotely compare to is tall and slim and blonde? So is a mop. I’ll leave you to ponder which is more useful.


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