“Well I’ll be honest,” I texted with tentative thumbs, “I’m probably not as experienced as you. I mean, I’m a virgin haha…”
I sighed at the light press of send and read the message again. I was relieved to be saying this through the protective shield of my phone and not face to face with those intense eyes and all-knowing smile. I stared at my innocent white letters surrounded in the perfect blue bubble.
My very first boyfriend replied quickly, black against gray. “I don’t mind J”
I have always been adverse to sexuality. Acting since I was twelve, I have encountered the odd actor with whom I didn’t exactly want to be alone in a dressing room. The older man hovering too much when I changed costumes backstage, the sexually frustrated cast-mate who wanted to really kiss and not stage it, the musical dance-partner who had me sit on his lap between numbers, the bisexual actress who touches too much. This defensiveness delayed relationships for me, which I am entirely glad of because I found my passion in acting and writing and put all my efforts into those skills. Though I find myself being 21, about to graduate college, and still a virgin.
My virginity does not define me. I do not stand before our campus fire pit, (which is far too reminiscent of Harry Potter’s Goblet of Fire to take seriously,) and declare my virgin-hood for all to hear. Yet, it must be obvious because I am not always treated like other college age women. It could be the delayed chuckle I make when a certain joke goes careening over my head, or the outright questions I ask my all too patient friends that lends proof to my status.
No matter what factors into other people’s assumptions of me, I am put into the category: naïve. Suddenly, classmates younger than I am, refuse to show me what pictures they are laughing at. I am talked to as though my lacking experience in just one area makes me somehow less worldly or intelligent.
College virgins are an extremely unanalyzed little species, even a study that took twenty three years realized how understudied they have been. Part of the problem studying virgins is how reluctant they are to admit they have not had sex and what reasons have prevented them from sex, especially males. Yet here we are, silently skulking around like the endangered snow leopard. But why the silence? Why is a virgin so pressured in college to deny or conform that they end up never sharing that aspect about themselves?
First, look at high school. In a public high school, in my experience, being a female virgin was the safest category in which an adolescent could fall. Imagine the scene in Hunchback of Notre Dame where the poor gypsy mother is about to be killed by Count Frollo, but at the title cathedral, she screams “Sanctuary!” and is spared. Well, Count Frollo is every unforgiving teenager hunting for rumors to mold into living nightmares of disgusting gossip. But if the helpless gypsies say they are a virgin, there is nothing to mold. Yes, other subjects could be targeted by bullies: looks, weight, acne, sexuality etc., but a bullet was dodged if a female remained abstinent.
A male virgin is ridiculed until either surrendering and having a sexual encounter, or feeling shame and inferiority among male peers. A non-virgin female was labelled “easy,” which was the kindest of the disgusting stereotypes. Fair or not, (certainly not,) that was high school.
Now, those boys who were ruthlessly bullied in high school have joined fraternities, hoping to have as much sex as inhumanly possible. Suddenly, the non-virgin ladies are goddesses, worshiped and constantly pursued by those leg-humping man-puppies. I am a repellent, the opposite of what college guys desire. I wear the labels, “high maintenance” and “too much work.” Thus, my inner snow leopard retreats into solitude.
During a break in our rehearsal, when all the seniors go outside to smoke under the archway outside the theatre, I was pulled aside by the stage manager. She was a tall redheaded bear of a woman, a veteran of the college party scene. She took me by the shoulder and bestowed her wisdom upon me, a feeble freshman.
“There’s a house down the street, Em,” she heaved sour smoke into the fall chill of evening, “If you’re ever invited there, just say no. That place is really, really bad. If you do end up there, and they pass a plate or a bowl around, just say no. Just, just say no, hun. You won’t like it. That place was even rough for me.”
She cackled a smoker’s laugh, but the lines in her face showed regret. I knew which house she meant: a dilapidated white plantation style house with a Greek tapestry draped over the balcony, usually decorated for Christmas or Halloween, completely abandoned looking during the day. At night, large and lifted trucks lined the street around the house and music throbbed through its hollow foundation. I held no interest in going there anyway, not that I was ever invited.
Another friend, a hybrid between the good Catholic conservative gal and the absolute party animal, (far more common than you’d think,) told me she too was a virgin. She lived unaware of a very specific reputation among the male party-goers of the dreaded white house.
“She does everything but. Well, everything BUTT.” Snickers ensued.
Four years later and still, never have I ever, attended a college party. These types of guys, stocked with “plates” and “bowls” of no-thank-you products and fresh-out of respect, do not appeal to me.
There is another category of college men, especially in the South, who would charitably accept a poor unfortunate virgin. The Christian Male. Picture thin legs exposed by pastel shorts and plaid button up, brown Sperry’s, and some kind of printed sock which they find makes them unique. The Christian Male is he who seeks a virtuous bride who goes to church Wednesday nights, Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, VBS, Youth Camp, Youth choir… Even though I did not check any of those confessional boxes, some thought I could still be saved. But after insisting that I was spiritual not religious, and disdained marriage, and focus only on acting, they write me off as unworthy. Then the mood changes to a dark interest in my sinful career path.
“So, would you be naked or do nudity?”
“Would you have sex on screen?”
Sigh! Alas, I am too high maintenance for the Frat Boy, and too godless for the Christian Male.
2,405 students attend my University. I wonder how many would admit they were in the same predicament as I am. How many Frat Boys were turned down until they resorted to pack-mentality and joined a group? How many Christian Males are looking for wives so they can finally check that one empty box. Susan Sprecher and Stanislav Treger found that men are far less up front about their virginity than women, but women reported more pressure to change their virginity status. How many young men and women finally give in and conform to the majority?
This conforming could have an academic effect. According to “READING, WRITING, AND SEX: THE EFFECT OF LOSING VIRGINITY ON ACADEMIC PERFORMANCE,” virgins have higher grade point averages than sexually active students. Though my grades remained strong, it was my commitment to a relationship (without sex,) that made me feel there could be adverse effects for me.
“I just don’t write as much anymore,” I explained, the words hurting as they left my mouth.
“And that’s my fault?” The all-knowing smile vanished, distorted by confusion and anger. We were breaking up, another act I never experienced before.
“No. But I need to be able to write, and I can’t distract myself with-”
“So, I’m a distraction.”
What a way to end a relationship and hurt a good man. Well done, Emma. It is difficult, to tell someone you do not want to have sex with them because it is just too serious and your career and creativity come first. They stop listening after: you do not want to have sex with them. It is not a believable enough excuse, a career. It must be them. Something must be wrong with them.
I closed my eyes and rubbed my pounding forehead, unable to look at what I was doing to the person in front of me. Never again.
I learned from my first and only relationship that I must be a college virgin. I cannot focus on school, and acting, and writing, and a companion. With homework and memorizing sometimes 600 lines of play dialogue a semester, with as much writing as I could squeeze in between everything, there is just no time to have a serious partnership.
There is another option which has been brought up to me by ladies who were well versed in the art of hookups. One night stands. I cannot consider one night stands without considering STDs. CL Shannon and JD Klausner found that of the 20 million new STIs in the United States each YEAR, half of the cases are of people my age. 1 in 4 adolescent females (15-24) have an STI. The rate of STIs for women and men who have sex with men have been rising since 2014. Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.
So here is the snow leopard, passing the camera to show a glimpse of the mysterious being that is the college virgin. Forgive my shyness, my aloofness, and my cynicism toward romance. The environment of college is not conducive to my “shortcomings,” and so must I hide.
Sabia, J. Joseph. “READING, WRITING, AND SEX: THE EFFECT OF LOSING VIRGINITY ON ACADEMIC PERFORMANCE.” Wiley Online Library, 17 October 2007, https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/full/10.1111/j.1465-7295.2007.00056.x. Accessed 21 January 2020.
Shannon, C.L. and Klausner, J.D. “The Growing Epidemic of Sexually Transmitted Infections in Adolescents: A Neglected Population.” NCBI, 30 February 2019, https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5856484/. Accessed 21 January 2020.
“Student Population at Cumberland University.” (CU) College Tuition Compare, Accessed 21 January 2020.
Sprecher, Susan and Treger, Stanislav. “Virgin College Students’ Reasons for and Reactions to Their Abstinence From Sex: Results From a 23-Year Study at a Midwestern U.S. University.” Taylor and Francis Online, 10 February 2015, https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/00224499.2014.983633?scroll=top&needAccess=true. Accessed 21 January 2020.
Sprecher, Susan and Regan, Pamela C. “College virgins: How men and women perceive their sexual status.” Taylor and Francis Online, 11 January 2010, Accessed 21 January 2020.
Art by Sheldon McMurtry
“Answer the door, Jane.”
Jane looked at her husband blankly.
“Who’s here?” she asked.
“I said Franklin and Molly were coming,” Roy answered, scratching his nose.
“What did you just do?”
Jane leaned forward, the white couch creaking slightly.
“You just snuck something into your mouth.”
“Jane, can we answer the door?”
Jane sighed and slouched to the door. She hesitated, then returned to the sofa.
“No thank you.”
Roy returned the sigh and went to their heavy, clunky apartment door. He opened it as Jane stayed on the sofa, her back to him. At Roy’s invitation, a pair of drawn out and overtly grand “Hellooooo’s,” entered the living room.
“Hi Jane!” Molly chirped brightly at the slumped figure that barely indented the sofa.
Jane’s silence did not dissuade Molly, who sat gracefully across from her on a matching white chair. Franklin threw his expensive jacket on the back of the sofa and plopped down beside Jane with a loud, too loud, exhale. He swept back his light red hair and gave Jane’s shoulder a friendly squeeze.
“How’ve you been?” Molly spoke after her husband.
“The baby’s sick,” Jane stood and dug her bare feet into the carpet.
“…Oh,” Molly looked at Roy.
“It’ll be fine, Jane,” Roy assured.
Little shag threads clung to Jane’s toes, and she hopped away from the carpet.
Roy took his wife’s place on the sofa.
“How are the kids, Molly?” Roy asked.
“Oh great, just great! Straight A’s for Eddie, Clay won the wrestling match on Saturday. Liz is Sandy in Grease. The twins both made the swim team. I’m forgetting things I know it, let’s see…”
As Molly cooed over her roost of accomplished little chicks, Jane stared at her. Molly’s long black hair draped over her shoulder like a theatre curtain. Her charcoal blouse bore no wrinkles, even in her curved sitting position. Her lipstick outlined her mouth perfectly. Not a thing out of place. Yet, here she is, vomiting worthless bile into Jane’s living room, onto Jane’s carpet.
“Oh, I said this cake looks lovely,” Molly repeated.
The cake in question sat innocently enough on a glass coffee table, shiny with syrup and artificial-looking fruit. A tea set sat beside the cake, not innocent at all. From the China teapot decorated with delicate pink flowers, leaked an unusual and unpleasant blend of tea, infecting the sinuses with ginger and lemongrass.
Molly deterred from the tea but sliced the cake. Jane studied the knife as it slowly divided the cake, removing a piece, destroying it.
It seemed the whole room was focused on Molly’s manicured hands pillaging her slice of cake. Jane thought the three seated figures looked like a picture in a magazine. This idea was disrupted by the ceiling fan, vigorously spinning to no escape. Round and round, jolting against the base.
“How’s work, Roy?” Franklin asked, breaking Jane’s little picture.
“Fine, same old job as it was ten years ago.”
Roy rose and made himself a drink in the corner of the light green room. At his removal from the sitting area, Franklin looked at Molly. Molly swallowed the glob of cake in her mouth and did not look at her husband.
“Jane,” Molly’s voice sounded like gentle cotton against the ear. “I love what you’ve done to the apartment, the furniture is so classic!”
“I haven’t done anything to it,” Jane said in a not-so-cotton tone and moved to Roy.
“How long are they staying?” she whispered. Was she whispering? She must have been, since Roy conveyed deafness. “The baby’s sick, she may have to go to the doctor-”
Roy downed his drink.
“Well, I’m going to check on her,” Jane hissed.
“How’s your work going, Frank?” Roy turned and went back to the ever-safe sofa.
“He’s actually going into his own business,” Molly answered. “He learned enough from them anyway.”
“Really?” Roy asked, glancing at his friend, who sniffed dismissively and smiled.
“Yes,” Molly continued in an automated-recording-voice, “People prefer freelance nowadays, and he’s got the computer to do those designs, so he can work from home now.”
Roy nodded. “Well, good for you, Frank. I’m sure the family missed having you around anyway.”
“You uh, got a drink for your guest, Roy?”
Franklin meant to ask this in good humor, but its execution sliced awkwardly. He attempted a reassuring chuckle, but failed once again, and the room was filled with a dry wheeze. Dry wheeze and displeasing tea.
“She’s coughing a lot, Roy,” Jane returned to the living room and looked down at her bundle. How could Roy ignore such a precious thing? A precious thing.
Jane recalled the night her baby was created.
A year-younger Jane ruled against her usual frumpy-dumpy pjs, and instead put on her silk pink nightie with white lace in all the places women think men want lace to be. Jane thought maybe if she asked for a baby in this nightie, with her usually limp blonde hair teased and her sharp face softened in lamp-light and evening darkness, Roy would comply.
So, Jane summoned whatever goddess of fertility probably laughed down at her razor burned legs and hidden push up cups in her negligee, and gave Roy some sexy line about baby-making she could no longer remember. But she never forgot what Roy said back.
“We both know you aren’t a mother, Jane.”
Anything that made Jane feel like a woman in that moment deflated and vanished. She failed to convince Roy before, but this was the first time he said that.
Compensating for her current lack of confidence and underwear, Jane started yelling, and the question of why they even got married popped up. When neither could answer it, Roy slammed the bedroom door on Jane. Oh, but then came Jane’s favorite part of the bittersweet memory. Roy burst out of the bedroom and gathered up his sobbing wife, holding her close to him. He begged forgiveness over and over for the poison he spat at her, for the insults. He kissed her between the ‘sorry’s and embraced all sadness out of her frame. Roy never apologized like that, and that night the baby was conceived.
Jane saw that in her baby’s sickly face, which she looked up from to eye her seated guests. Franklin and Molly appeared less perfect. Molly’s unreasonably costly foundation could not conceal a breakout of raised acne under her cheekbones and on the tip of her nose. When Franklin lifted his muscle-rich arm and rested it on the back of the sofa, he exposed a u-shaped ring of sweat spreading through his dark button up shirt.
“Don’t you want any tea, Molly?” Jane asked, squinting. Molly looked up at her, mid-sentence through a kid-story Jane did not desire her to continue.
“Roy made you both tea and bought that cake. He must have done it while I was taking care of the baby. It’ll get cold soon.”
Molly looked down at the dreaded teapot. She poured herself a cup. The smell worsened now that the concoction presented itself uncovered in the little teacup.
“Did you see the new couple who moved into our building last week?” Jane probed her question slowly at Molly, who took a tentative sip from her cup. She swallowed politely.
“No, I don’t think so-”
The tweed of the white chair itched at Molly’s legs, causing them to sweat.
“Jerry and… oh what was the wife’s name, do you remember, Roy?” Jane asked her husband.
Jane clicked her tongue, pretending to think, her eyes not leaving Molly.
“Blonde hair, skinny-”
“Wendy,” Franklin answered curtly.
Molly set her cup down hard on its saucer, the first unpleasant noise she made. Her eyes winced slightly at her own action.
“I met her in the elevator,” Franklin explained to no one’s inquiry. Franklin rubbed his lips together behind his groomed crimson beard. The pomaded hairs twitched, and he stood up to pour himself another drink.
The sides of Jane’s mouth moved upward in satisfaction.
“You don’t have to drink the tea, Molly,” Roy interjected. “I never make tea so I’m sure it’s horrible.”
“Actually,” Molly clinked the cup and saucer more carefully on the coffee table, “I think I’ll take a drink too, Franklin.”
She gave an airy laugh, poorly performed.
Jane sat with her baby in the accent chair near Molly, red leather. It was only an accent chair in that absolutely nothing else in the apartment was red, and Roy vouched for its striking “vibe.” Jane’s feet pushed down into the plush of the carpet. Franklin handed Molly her drink and took his seat on the sofa with Roy.
“I couldn’t find the baby Aspirin, Roy, did we use it all?” Jane asked when the baby jolted her with her sudden cries.
Now this time, she knew she had not whispered, yet Roy still showed no acknowledgement.
Jane noticed Molly’s expression.
Molly blinked several times.
“What?” Molly parroted guiltlessly.
“There’s no need to-” Jane cut herself off when she saw Roy scratch his nose.
“You did it again,” Jane said at him.
“Did what?” Roy asked, pushing up his mock-vintage glasses, not looking at his accuser.
“You just put something in your mouth again. It’s the baby Aspirin, isn’t it? I said to use the regular kind if you had a headache-”
“I didn’t take any pills. Maybe you should start taking yours again.”
Molly chewed the ice in her drink uncomfortably, and a shard went down the wrong side, triggering loud coughs and sputters. The room turned to her, and she set down the glass, waving her hands apologetically and taking a bite of cake to smother the lodged ice chip. This helped nothing, since the cake dried up in the time it was left uneaten. Now stale crumbs and ice choked the wildly embarrassed Molly, who grabbed for the tea next. The sour beverage put a sour face on her, but the hacking finally ceased and Molly survived.
Her fingers rested on her windpipe as she croaked a-
Jane would not have heard Molly if she convulsed to the floor and choked to death on that ice. Her ears heated to a degree which muted all the sound in the room, but her heartbeat.
She felt the same way on her wedding day, during the reception. Jane dreamed of having a quiet wedding in an outdoor garden venue lit only by the twinkly glow of Christmas lights strung above them. The white of her dress would stand out from the pale-yellow chrysanthemums and green shrubbery surrounding them. She’d look so angelic that people would think her too perfect to have anything wrong with her.
Yet there she sat inside a rented-out room of a night club in the city, at a plastic table with a garishly gold tablecloth. She could see Roy and his wide smile, shouting something to Franklin and their other male friends across the room. She could see the women dancing in front of her to noisy and incoherently written music. But not a sound. Nothing reached Jane’s ears but pulsing, hateful blood. On the day which she felt should have been only about her, Jane wondered if anyone noticed her presence at all.
She recalled the exact burgundy-black color of wine that stood in high stemware before her, inches from her hand. If she took that hand, burdened only by a ring, and pounded it down on the goblet, would it break? Did she possess enough anything to affect that thin crystal glass? And if it did shatter against the table, staining the hideous tablecloth, would someone come rushing with napkins to soak up her mistake?
No. Jane decorated the wedding as much as the wine, something to be at a table, something to sit be beside Roy, something to pour, and drink, and empty, and say, “hm, very nice,” and never think about again…
A few timid fingers grazed Jane’s arm. Jane stood and whirled around to see Molly, whose startled eyebrows raised in alarm.
“He kissed someone that night,” Jane whispered. “Did you know that?”
“Franklin and that bridesmaid who got drunk. You were dancing with Roy, but I saw it. He kissed her, six feet from you.”
“Jane- I don’t think you-” Molly was breathing unsteadily.
Franklin cleared his throat and scratched the nape of his freckled neck.
“Sandwiched together all night, those two,” Jane continued, “And you didn’t even see it.”
“Jane.” Roy uncrossed his legs and set his drink on the coffee table with a thick clank.
“You never see it, do you Molly. Not even in our own apartment.”
“Jane, that’s enough,” Roy’s shoulders tensed, the muscles trying to support his raising tone.
“It’s pretty late,” Franklin stood up and grabbed his coat.
Jane just realized how close she was standing to Molly, and how tightly she was squeezing the baby’s blanket. She backed up and shifted her feet into the shag.
Surprising everyone, Molly stepped forward, her features hard and focused.
“I saw it Jane. Maybe not as quickly as you did, but I saw it. I am sorry you aren’t always in your right mind, but that gives you no right to talk to friends this way. And, unlike you, I try to keep matters between a husband and wife private. Our personal affairs are no business of yours, especially when you have no room to talk.”
Molly exhaled entirely through her nose, and finally stepped away. The weight of her tears gave way and trickled slowly, streaking the beige makeup and black mascara.
Jane licked her dry lips as Roy opened the door for Molly and Franklin.
“‘Affairs’ is definitely the right word for it!”
Had Jane said that? No. She couldn’t have said that.
Though perhaps she had, since Franklin stopped at the door.
“She uh-” Roy spoke to Franklin, who swung his shoulders around to face Jane.
“She didn’t mean it, Frank-” Roy finished.
Franklin’s size seemed immense. His now disheveled hair and beard surrounded his eyes in tangerine flames.
As if blind to the amassing energy of intimidation, Jane chuckled.
“You know, when she was choking on that ice like an idiot, I thought you were going to let her die.”
Jane closed her eyes to laugh again, a sound absent of joy. When she opened them, Roy was standing in front of her, his back against her cheek, pushing Franklin away toward the door.
“Franklin stop!” Molly yelled.
Franklin sighed hard and stared over Roy’s shoulder into Jane’s eyes.
“You’re fucking nuts.”
Molly pulled her husband away and the door closed with a hideous wack. Like a tub plug being lifted, the strength in Jane drained out of her and she sat down on the white sofa.
While Jane’s venom flushed, Roy’s filled. He stood at the closed door when he spoke.
“Well, you got what you wanted.”
“This isn’t what I wanted-”
Jane stopped talking altogether.
“What is it Jane? What? What? Because I can’t keep going like this. I can’t keep inviting people over to see you like you’re a fucking zoo animal!”
Jane suddenly stood, her face trembling with a furious retort on the horizon of her lips.
“THIS,” she set the baby on the sofa and waved her arms around the apartment with wild gesticulation.
“This isn’t what I wanted, this was all you. The- the- the-”
The wedding, the unhappy years of condescension toward her mental state, the night she wanted a baby, the apartment. This apartment. The green walls, the white furniture, the accent chair…
She finally allowed the plush of the carpet to engulf her feet, squeezing between her pale toes. Could she move? No, she was stuck, Jane was certainly stuck.
Jane felt paralysis creeping up from her sweating feet, to the denim which suffocated her legs.
“This isn’t the carpet I wanted!”
Roy stared at his wife, who shivered in her own desperate fear. His forehead lines showed frustrated confusion, but his voice was level.
“I never liked it, but you just had to have it. You insist on everything in our lives to suit your picture, but it’s not my picture. I wanted… a different picture.”
“You picked it.”
The intensity grew in Roy’s voice.
“You picked this carpet. You don’t even remember, do you? Everything we have ever done has had to be on your terms, but your terms are always changing! You wanted the wedding to be in a city club, then after the honeymoon you say you wanted it in the country. You wanted an apartment with green walls and a red chair, then when we move, you say you wanted a little house with a little fence and a little dog. Then you tell me you want a BABY? What am I supposed to say, Jane? If we have a baby you’ll say you never wanted kids!”
Tears poured out of Jane’s frantically blinking eyes, collecting at the curve of her nose and the corners of her mouth. She felt her body working against her, her mind losing focus. She was reaching for the words, the words to make Roy understand, the words to make him feel sorry for her just once.
“We have to save the baby, Roy-”
Roy panted until the blood settled back into his cheeks. He shook his head wildly and went to the couch. With a great magician’s flourish, he yanked the baby’s blanket, revealing nothing inside.
Jane stared at the blanket, unable to move or speak. Roy wrapped himself up in a grey puffy jacket, put on his hat, and opened the door.
He said something his wife could not hear, and left without shutting the door. The inaudible words floated ominously around the room and drifted down, past Jane’s ears, onto Jane’s carpet.
The stigma was always the most interesting part of a flower to me. It was never due to its reproductive importance or some deep-seated feminist sentiment, but rather because of its functionality. The stigma serves as a gateway, one through which precious pollens are delivered and sent to the ovaries within the flower’s central pistil, a structure surrounded by its petals. When I’d seen the stigma in diagrams and drawings in science class, it was just an indistinguishable shape with a thick, smudged outline. Seeing it on a real plant was much different. One that always lingers in my mind’s eye is that of a pink lily, a triangular structure with a deep yellow color that evokes images of honey-turned-cream. It held the center throne of the lily’s display of beloved petals as if it were the heart of the plant, beating with the lifeblood of its posterity. Its yellowish surface was covered with a sticky coating for the purpose of rehydrating dry pollen for fertilization, but to me it was like magic, like it could give life to everything it touched. If the most beautiful flowers happened to have the most effective pistils, it wouldn’t surprise me.
Not many would be keen to hear inner thoughts like these, not even my own mother. Especially not my own mother. She would rather me go to and fro school quietly, to bring up any kind of jargon if only to recite the rote passages and bland fact bits I’d been force-fed in class. She values my education but only to the most surface-level degree. Like many other “old adolescents”, I don’t have the slightest clue of what she wants for my future, and from what I can gather, neither does she.
My mother chimes in and interrupts my self-exposition. “Look Lucy, they’re hiring. I think this would be a great job for you. Grocery stores have flexible hours, you know, and this would be a good first job to get you started.”
I follow her hand as her index finger points towards the jerking automatic doors to a bright orange sign, inscribed with “Currently Hiring”, plastered to the wall and glistening as I try to will it away.
I reply with, “I don’t know about that.”
“Oh, it’s easy work. And I’m sure they’d hire you. These places tend to bring on cute girls your age.”
I can’t tell if she’s pitying me or if she’s hopelessly, utterly blind to how unsightly I am. If Keira Knightley were a lily, then I’d be a rafflesia.
Mother always gravitated towards the vegetables and fruits first. Through one convoluted coping mechanism or another, I find a way to enjoy the produce section. It’s colorful, what with the taut skin and glowing red hues of the hand grenade tomatoes, and the shifting green-screen shades of cabbage and okra lining the misty sprinkle machines. On some strange level I, somewhat shamefully, feel a bit of a connection with these crops. We both wait in limbo to change, or be changed. In both cases, what lies ahead could very well be the worst thing to ever happen to us. Though, unlike vegetables, I have the freedom to be forced to listen to incessant spouting about my procuring a job and making more friends.
Like a Ferris wheel motor, we pass rows and rows of freezer doors, all Heaven-lit cockpits full of frozen occupants with courses set to American suburbia. These cold aisles always arouse a bit of excitement from me. According to my mother’s ever-static routine, freezer doors mean we are nearing the end of this grocery shopping vexation. The thought of leaving this claustrophobic, homogenized cardboard cutout prison block inevitably overtakes my thoughts.
That is, until something vaguely familiar graces my peripherals in one wave of motion. Startled, I turn my head swiftly to confront it.
There’s nothing, save for an empty cart garnished by a bouquet.
Photography by Sumner McMurtry