Seven #3
We break apart, each to our errands and obligations, with the unspoken agreement that, for tonight at least, none of us will be left to our own devices. That’s what a rewrite is, after all: starting over, line by line, even if you have to do it a dozen times before it sticks.
I head home to pack a bag for Leo, still feeling the echo of their hands on my shoulders, the certainty that no matter how much I unravel, someone is always willing to help pull me back together again.
As I turn the corner, I glance back and catch the last burst of laughter from the café’s window as Luca gets back to tackling the chaos inside.
I guess this is happening then. Fuck my life.
***
Leo’s bag is dropped off, I am child free and now it’s just me, alone in the bedroom, towel-wrapped and staring at the ghost of myself in the wardrobe mirror.
The mirror is full-length, a relic of my parents’ old house.
It’s bolted to the inside of the closet, warped at the edges so my calves always look wider and my neck longer, but the reflection is mostly accurate.
I don’t usually stop to look. It’s not vanity, just efficiency.
Most days, my body is a tool. A vehicle for the day’s tasks: drop-off, pick-up, groceries, emails, the endless, invisible labour of keeping the world from falling apart.
And writing for me usually involves a messy bun and oversized jumper.
Today I stand there for a while, watching the water bead along my collarbone and disappear into the stripe of the towel. My hair is still wet, sticking in dark streaks to the curve of my jaw. I could blow dry it, but the idea of adding more heat to my skin feels unbearable.
On the dresser, my glasses sit folded, the lenses are already smudged.
I used to wear contacts, back before Leo, back before sleep deprivation and seasonal allergies and the scheduling that didn’t allow for ten extra seconds of finger-to-eye battle.
Now the glasses are a permanent fixture, a signal to the world that I am paying attention. Even if I’m not.
My wardrobe is open behind me, the contents a capsule of my own self-erasure: three identical pairs of jeans, two oversized jumpers, a rotating cast of T-shirts in navy and grey.
One dress, dark blue, somewhere between formal and not, still carrying the price tag under the arm.
I bought it two years ago, convinced I might someday become the kind of woman who wore dresses without a reason.
Every time I reach for it, I talk myself out of it.
Tonight, though, I take it off the hanger and let it drape over my forearm, heavy and unfamiliar.
I towel off, then slide the dress over my skin.
It fits, but not like how I imagined it would.
My body is not what it was before Leo, or even before Ethan.
There is softness where there used to be muscle, and a few rolls that seemed to have appeared in the last few years.
The dress doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t make me look like someone else. It just makes me look more like me.
I stand there in the middle of the bedroom, letting the wet from my hair soak into the fabric at the shoulders.
The effect is not flattering, but it’s honest. I wonder, for a second, if that’s what tonight is going to be: a test of whether I can stand to be honest, to show up in my own skin and not flinch away from the sight of myself.
My phone buzzes from the top of the dresser, rattling against the wood.
I pick it up. It’s a text from Luca: “For the love of all things good, wear something with colour. Also, no Crocs. I will confiscate them.” There’s an emoji after the message, eggplant, tongue, and then the blue cap emoji that means “no cap” if you’re under 30, which I am proud to claim, if only just.
I snort, then realize I am alone and nobody can hear it. I add a reply: “Already exceeded your expectations. Will not confirm status of Crocs.”
He replies instantly. “LIV SAYS SHE WILL SET THEM ON FIRE.”
Liv’s texts are less frequent but far more blunt: “P.S. I don't believe you so I am bringing you an outfit. See you at 8.”
I put the phone down, turn back to the mirror, and look again. The woman staring back is not a stranger. She’s just been on mute for a long time.
I reach for my glasses, slide them on, and let the world come back into focus. The face is older than I want it to be, but not tired. Not today. There’s a set to my jaw that I don’t recognize, like I’m bracing for something that hasn’t even started yet.
On the vanity, there’s a tube of lipstick so old it’s probably illegal to put it on skin, let alone lips.
I bought it on sale, “for special occasions,” but the occasion never presented itself.
I twist it open. The colour is too dark for my skin, too assertive for my face, but I put it on anyway.
It smears a little. I fix it with my thumb.
I decide to wait for Liv’s inevitable intervention and decide to dry my hair anyway whilst I wait for her.