situation.
Mugs of tea would have been balanced on my chest if the blokes could have gotten away with it. As it was, I developed a powerful set of fists.
My waist only made the situation worse. My hands (small) could almost meet around it, and all my brothers' friends and every station hand grabbed at the waist of the girl with the jokey postcard shape.
All of that I had forgotten, until now—as I shoved the jeans down to my ankles. The T-shirt at my feet was probably just as bad as the jeans—ready to laugh at me if I tried to pull it on, sticking like a rubber band, just above my breasts. My eyes roamed over the disaster in the mirror as my brain raced over my problems. Would my normal uniform, plus the accessory jewels, work? Would my figure be guessed at anyway? Discussed in critical reviews of my work? Could I be Desirée Lily?
And then there was a knock on my door, and before I could say 'Just a minute', the door, as it would , flew open.
—10—
Although I have a painfully good memory, I cannot recall every detail of the next few minutes, though I was conscious through every moment.
My exact words, I don't remember.
My position: You try to turn your back, yank stiff, straight jeans up from around your ankles and over an impossible swell of thigh, and bend over and cover your body front and back with your arms, all at the same time. You might end as I did, knotted on the floor, a lump forming on your forehead from clonking your head on the hardwood—and your arse, if it is like mine, is pointing (a funny word in my case) high in the air, facing directly towards the doorway. Briefly, I tried to lift the thing that hurt so much that I wished it belonged to someone else—my head—so I could look towards the door, but trying to crane around only made me dizzy. My eyes jammed shut and my forehead kissed the floor again, not gently. Blood that I could hear wooshed between my ears, sounding like milk being shaken into butter in a goatskin, milk with shards of something sharp hitting the back of my eyeballs ... woosh, stab, woosh .
Brett said something. That was his voice, but I couldn't identify words. What I do remember clearly was the voice of Jim, saying 'Excuse me, Miss Lily. I'll just put these here.'
I remember yelling, but not the words. There mightn't have been any words as such.
And I remember being alone in my room, my head impossibly heavy, my thoughts a cloud, and me still folded over on the floor.
I remember the smell of roses, and ... shit, runny with piss.
~
I woke in a lake—slicking my arms, kissing my head. Jerking myself upright, I almost fell forward again, but balanced. Yet again in my life, this ingrate that I fed and clothed paid me in humiliation. I wanted, powerfully, to punish it, and I would have. I would have, if it wouldn't have hurt me. I tried to get up but my legs were asleep and my feet now woke with needle stabs too painful to touch. Instead, a rivulet ran down the side of my nose which identified, as if I wanted to know the details—flowers, fruit, filth—and my brain paraded Jim saying, 'Excuse me, Miss Lily. I'll just put these here.' In my brain's version, he was full-face centre of the picture, so my mind's eye watched what I know he must have been doing when he said those words. Smirk.
He had to be a champion smirker, for his paid smile was so good. So while I was unable to escape, my brain made me watch Jim enter and say those words, and smirk, and then delicately flare his nostrils and I watched his pupils contract, or would they dilate—I couldn't decide—but the smirk played clearly and with close-ups at least three times before my feet said I could move.
I rolled over in the muck and punched my legs till they obeyed me. Prying the jeans off, I ran with them and the shit-sodden shirt to my shower, where I rammed those taps to maximum downpour, then grabbed bottle after bottle and poured. Anything I could reach I used on me and the mess, stomping on
Mugs of tea would have been balanced on my chest if the blokes could have gotten away with it. As it was, I developed a powerful set of fists.
My waist only made the situation worse. My hands (small) could almost meet around it, and all my brothers' friends and every station hand grabbed at the waist of the girl with the jokey postcard shape.
All of that I had forgotten, until now—as I shoved the jeans down to my ankles. The T-shirt at my feet was probably just as bad as the jeans—ready to laugh at me if I tried to pull it on, sticking like a rubber band, just above my breasts. My eyes roamed over the disaster in the mirror as my brain raced over my problems. Would my normal uniform, plus the accessory jewels, work? Would my figure be guessed at anyway? Discussed in critical reviews of my work? Could I be Desirée Lily?
And then there was a knock on my door, and before I could say 'Just a minute', the door, as it would , flew open.
—10—
Although I have a painfully good memory, I cannot recall every detail of the next few minutes, though I was conscious through every moment.
My exact words, I don't remember.
My position: You try to turn your back, yank stiff, straight jeans up from around your ankles and over an impossible swell of thigh, and bend over and cover your body front and back with your arms, all at the same time. You might end as I did, knotted on the floor, a lump forming on your forehead from clonking your head on the hardwood—and your arse, if it is like mine, is pointing (a funny word in my case) high in the air, facing directly towards the doorway. Briefly, I tried to lift the thing that hurt so much that I wished it belonged to someone else—my head—so I could look towards the door, but trying to crane around only made me dizzy. My eyes jammed shut and my forehead kissed the floor again, not gently. Blood that I could hear wooshed between my ears, sounding like milk being shaken into butter in a goatskin, milk with shards of something sharp hitting the back of my eyeballs ... woosh, stab, woosh .
Brett said something. That was his voice, but I couldn't identify words. What I do remember clearly was the voice of Jim, saying 'Excuse me, Miss Lily. I'll just put these here.'
I remember yelling, but not the words. There mightn't have been any words as such.
And I remember being alone in my room, my head impossibly heavy, my thoughts a cloud, and me still folded over on the floor.
I remember the smell of roses, and ... shit, runny with piss.
~
I woke in a lake—slicking my arms, kissing my head. Jerking myself upright, I almost fell forward again, but balanced. Yet again in my life, this ingrate that I fed and clothed paid me in humiliation. I wanted, powerfully, to punish it, and I would have. I would have, if it wouldn't have hurt me. I tried to get up but my legs were asleep and my feet now woke with needle stabs too painful to touch. Instead, a rivulet ran down the side of my nose which identified, as if I wanted to know the details—flowers, fruit, filth—and my brain paraded Jim saying, 'Excuse me, Miss Lily. I'll just put these here.' In my brain's version, he was full-face centre of the picture, so my mind's eye watched what I know he must have been doing when he said those words. Smirk.
He had to be a champion smirker, for his paid smile was so good. So while I was unable to escape, my brain made me watch Jim enter and say those words, and smirk, and then delicately flare his nostrils and I watched his pupils contract, or would they dilate—I couldn't decide—but the smirk played clearly and with close-ups at least three times before my feet said I could move.
I rolled over in the muck and punched my legs till they obeyed me. Prying the jeans off, I ran with them and the shit-sodden shirt to my shower, where I rammed those taps to maximum downpour, then grabbed bottle after bottle and poured. Anything I could reach I used on me and the mess, stomping on
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