to spot anything behind one of the dozens of windows. On the London Bridge, I asked strangers to take pictures of me. Tuesday night I went to see the London eye all sparkling with blue lights and Big Ben just across the Thames from it in all its beauty. I’d expected it to be taller, but this way it was easier to fit into just one photograph without losing any detail. However, with my new hobby taking up all my time – and thankfully all my thoughts - I kind of totally forgot that I should do my laundry someday and by Sunday I was out of proper clean clothes.
You could only wear a shirt so many times until it started to feel icky. Holding up my only two options, a black tank I hadn’t worn yet or a yellow blouse I hardly ever wore, I mentally weighed their pros and contras against each other. In the end it came down to a very simple comparison: The black shirt exposed my shoulders, the yellow blouse would hitch up all through the night and expose my belly on various accounts. I’d go with the black shirt.
Including my ripped jeans, the outfit made me look more badass than I felt comfortable with. As long as I could have my hair down as an extra cover for my shoulders, I’d survive the night.
“Hi, Darling!” Sierra greeted me with a peck on the cheek while she was already wrapping her apron around her waist. “Aren’t you a sexy little kitten? Are you trying to impress someone?”
I didn’t feel sexy. I felt naked. “Nope. It’s laundry day. I’m wearing my last clean clothes,” I said and brushed my fingers through my hair but without mirror it was indefinitely harder to keep it in place.
“You should do laundry day more often. Who knew you had tits?”
“I knew. Actually, I see them every day, and there’s no one else who has to know about them,” I answered, glad that Wesley was standing next to me, not Trace. He’d said he didn’t think I was hot, but I had yet to encounter the straight man whose eyes didn’t travel south at the mention of breasts.
“You have a tattoo.” Oh, God. Speak of the devil. He stood right behind me and I knew with certainty that he was not interested in my boobs. He was staring at the ink crawling out beneath my top. I tried not to stiffen, not to move my shoulders under his observation, because it would draw even more attention to the tattoo. Sierra moved back to check it out, too, whistling her approval.
“Yes,” I said as firmly as I could manage, “You didn’t think you were the only person who could get one, did you?”
“What is it?” he asked instead of answering me.
“It’s none of your business.” There was so much about the tattoo that I hated. I hated the original intention behind the picture, I hated the year it reminded me of and I hated who I was when I had it made. Still, I had never made plans to get it removed. It was my constant reminder to be better than the girl who walked into the tattoo parlor with a fake ID.
“Is it the only one?”
“Trace,” I warned, glancing back over my shoulder. His eyes were trained on my back, as if the tattoo would shine through the black fabric if he stared long enough. Sierra had already moved on to picking a CD.
“Answer one question. Only one.”
“Fine, will you shut up about it then?”
“Yes. How big is it?”
I sighed and arched my back until I could reach a hand around and feel for the knobbly vertebra beneath my neck. With the other hand, I located the two dimples above my tailbone.
“That’s your whole bloody back.”
“I know.”
“Are those feathers?”
I spun around, turning my back towards Wesley who undoubtedly was staring at the ink just the same. He was just much more polite about it than his brother. “One question. That’s it. Enough.”
He held up his hands. “Okay, you don’t like talking about the tattoo.” Too early, a breath of relief escaped my lungs. “Then let me see it.”
I should have just gone for the yellow blouse. If I had tied the apron tight
You could only wear a shirt so many times until it started to feel icky. Holding up my only two options, a black tank I hadn’t worn yet or a yellow blouse I hardly ever wore, I mentally weighed their pros and contras against each other. In the end it came down to a very simple comparison: The black shirt exposed my shoulders, the yellow blouse would hitch up all through the night and expose my belly on various accounts. I’d go with the black shirt.
Including my ripped jeans, the outfit made me look more badass than I felt comfortable with. As long as I could have my hair down as an extra cover for my shoulders, I’d survive the night.
“Hi, Darling!” Sierra greeted me with a peck on the cheek while she was already wrapping her apron around her waist. “Aren’t you a sexy little kitten? Are you trying to impress someone?”
I didn’t feel sexy. I felt naked. “Nope. It’s laundry day. I’m wearing my last clean clothes,” I said and brushed my fingers through my hair but without mirror it was indefinitely harder to keep it in place.
“You should do laundry day more often. Who knew you had tits?”
“I knew. Actually, I see them every day, and there’s no one else who has to know about them,” I answered, glad that Wesley was standing next to me, not Trace. He’d said he didn’t think I was hot, but I had yet to encounter the straight man whose eyes didn’t travel south at the mention of breasts.
“You have a tattoo.” Oh, God. Speak of the devil. He stood right behind me and I knew with certainty that he was not interested in my boobs. He was staring at the ink crawling out beneath my top. I tried not to stiffen, not to move my shoulders under his observation, because it would draw even more attention to the tattoo. Sierra moved back to check it out, too, whistling her approval.
“Yes,” I said as firmly as I could manage, “You didn’t think you were the only person who could get one, did you?”
“What is it?” he asked instead of answering me.
“It’s none of your business.” There was so much about the tattoo that I hated. I hated the original intention behind the picture, I hated the year it reminded me of and I hated who I was when I had it made. Still, I had never made plans to get it removed. It was my constant reminder to be better than the girl who walked into the tattoo parlor with a fake ID.
“Is it the only one?”
“Trace,” I warned, glancing back over my shoulder. His eyes were trained on my back, as if the tattoo would shine through the black fabric if he stared long enough. Sierra had already moved on to picking a CD.
“Answer one question. Only one.”
“Fine, will you shut up about it then?”
“Yes. How big is it?”
I sighed and arched my back until I could reach a hand around and feel for the knobbly vertebra beneath my neck. With the other hand, I located the two dimples above my tailbone.
“That’s your whole bloody back.”
“I know.”
“Are those feathers?”
I spun around, turning my back towards Wesley who undoubtedly was staring at the ink just the same. He was just much more polite about it than his brother. “One question. That’s it. Enough.”
He held up his hands. “Okay, you don’t like talking about the tattoo.” Too early, a breath of relief escaped my lungs. “Then let me see it.”
I should have just gone for the yellow blouse. If I had tied the apron tight
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