(a.) Stream Of Consciousness Exercise (b.) Possibly The Beginning of a Short Story Or (c.) Simply A Character Development
She was humming while the shower curtain threw open and she reached for the blue towel hanging on the wall mounted rack from Target, immediately wrapping it under her arms, the point of contact between wet skin and dry cotton just shy of immaculate, elbows tucked down to hold it in place. As she reached out for the pink towel, smaller, to wrap around her head she noticed that her arms were puffed out next to her breasts from the elbow tucking and this sent displeasure through her, though she knew it was petty and probably a useless thing to feel. No less, it was her useless thing to feel.
Wrapping up her hair in the same turban style her mother had taught her when she was young, a memory came and the displeasure was gone. Rowan didn't believe in an afterlife, but the thought of her mother sleeping peacefully made her feel something new. It would be six years next month and Rowan was finally a little okay with it. Displeasure replaced with nostalgia and a faint scent of daughterly gratitude. She managed to smile as she dried her shoulders, but then she thought of how much time had passed since those shoulders had been touched and this brought back the events that took place just prior at the Saxon Pub.
She was supposed to have met a guy who she'd contacted on FirstDate.com, but assumed that he had either died in his apartment from dorito strangulation, or a strange heart condition, or he just saw her face, feeling either too aggravated and nervous to deal with a next to blind date, or disgusted with the goods, the commodity which the internet had turned her into - a profile to be examined and evaluated - and walked back out the door. She imagined him hailing a cab as she drank her third vodka-tonic, skimming over how he could have made such a terrible mistake, overlooking all the possible negatives of her profile and following his dick's advice. Whatever the reason, he had not come and Rowan was, in different and terribly melancholy ways, crushed by this.
And as she lifted a leg to the edge of the tub, bending over to dry it, her stomach bunched into the faintest little pudge whereupon water trickled out of her belly button and ran down to her thigh. It felt for the briefest of moments like a man gently blowing against her skin and when she became aroused at the thought, the displeasure came back in full stride and she began crying, the tears indistinguishable from the hard tap water still running down her face from the drenched turban of hair above.
She felt just like everybody else in the world, nothing special about her. Breathing in sharply between light sobs, this was Friday night for Rowan and it was filled with ups and downs, nostalgia and the great displeasure.
Probably petty and useless things to feel, but these was hers to feel as she unfolded onto the bathroom floor, a puddle forming at her feet.
Hers alone.
She was humming while the shower curtain threw open and she reached for the blue towel hanging on the wall mounted rack from Target, immediately wrapping it under her arms, the point of contact between wet skin and dry cotton just shy of immaculate, elbows tucked down to hold it in place. As she reached out for the pink towel, smaller, to wrap around her head she noticed that her arms were puffed out next to her breasts from the elbow tucking and this sent displeasure through her, though she knew it was petty and probably a useless thing to feel. No less, it was her useless thing to feel.
Wrapping up her hair in the same turban style her mother had taught her when she was young, a memory came and the displeasure was gone. Rowan didn't believe in an afterlife, but the thought of her mother sleeping peacefully made her feel something new. It would be six years next month and Rowan was finally a little okay with it. Displeasure replaced with nostalgia and a faint scent of daughterly gratitude. She managed to smile as she dried her shoulders, but then she thought of how much time had passed since those shoulders had been touched and this brought back the events that took place just prior at the Saxon Pub.
She was supposed to have met a guy who she'd contacted on FirstDate.com, but assumed that he had either died in his apartment from dorito strangulation, or a strange heart condition, or he just saw her face, feeling either too aggravated and nervous to deal with a next to blind date, or disgusted with the goods, the commodity which the internet had turned her into - a profile to be examined and evaluated - and walked back out the door. She imagined him hailing a cab as she drank her third vodka-tonic, skimming over how he could have made such a terrible mistake, overlooking all the possible negatives of her profile and following his dick's advice. Whatever the reason, he had not come and Rowan was, in different and terribly melancholy ways, crushed by this.
And as she lifted a leg to the edge of the tub, bending over to dry it, her stomach bunched into the faintest little pudge whereupon water trickled out of her belly button and ran down to her thigh. It felt for the briefest of moments like a man gently blowing against her skin and when she became aroused at the thought, the displeasure came back in full stride and she began crying, the tears indistinguishable from the hard tap water still running down her face from the drenched turban of hair above.
She felt just like everybody else in the world, nothing special about her. Breathing in sharply between light sobs, this was Friday night for Rowan and it was filled with ups and downs, nostalgia and the great displeasure.
Probably petty and useless things to feel, but these was hers to feel as she unfolded onto the bathroom floor, a puddle forming at her feet.
Hers alone.
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