A Typical Girl
She left home when she was eighteen. There wasn’t much choice in the matter: either she went, or she died there, fat, drunk, smoking, jobless, pregnant five time before thirty. She couldn’t take the small town life, she needed the city. That’s how she saw it.
A typical day for her went like this:
-Up at the earliest she could manage, to see the sun appear between the skyscrapers and above the trees. A cup of tea, steam curling over her fingers and up to her hair as she blows on the mug to cool it down. Behind her in the tiny room that constitutes the bedroom, kitchen, living area and, hidden in a corner and curtained off for privacy, a toilet. Sometimes in the bed a man snores, and sometimes not. Today she is alone, her bed was cold, waking was easy, the tea was hot, the skies were grey, the air was clear, her mind was clear, her thoughts were clear.
-Mornings are spent walking. It’s not enough to rent a room in a city, one must truly live in it, walk through, explore it and know it. The city, not the room. She has given up a lot to be here. Her friends are already starting to forget her, and her new friends aren’t yet close enough to care about her more than infrequently, at parties of while drunk. She walks and she thinks and the knowledge that so many other feet, young and old, have walked down the same street as her, is exciting. Everything is exciting because it is new, even the sad things. Even the horrible things.
-Afternoons she works. Her latest job, the one she has had the longest, is at a coffee shop not far from her home. Everyone who works there seems for some reason to harbour a disdain for the customers, though she herself does not. They dislike the customers because they don’t care enough for the coffee, or at least that is what her co-workers think. But maybe they do. And maybe they don’t – so what? She feels like she is walking on air while she makes coffee. The rote movements soothe. The pay is never enough, but the customers are nice.
-Night-times are for dancing. She visits one place just long enough to become known to the bar-staff by sight, and then she leaves. She never returns. Some nights she takes a man home, some nights she doesn’t. She prefers to sleep alone, but she likes to fuck. It’s a quandary, because often they won’t leave.
But every morning the tea curls up from the cup, and the skies are clear. Her thoughts are clear. Her mind is clear. The tea is dark.
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The above piece of writing comprises part of my fragments project, some of which are available on this website. I intend to add new fragments piecemeal, not in any particular order, and as the occasion take me.