Another li’l flash bit I wrote on a whim. If you like, let me know why and what. If you don’t, tell me why not and what. I can take it.
Here you go. Enjoy, and have a great weekend. Shabbat Shalom, y’all. 🙂
Cindy blew the stray hair off her forehead, but the sweat on her brow glued it down where it fell from the loose knot she piled atop her head. She raked her damp wrist over beaded sweat and made things worse before submerging her hands in the hot water again. Salty drops ran down her cheek and tucked into the deepening lines in her face.
Those lines came earlier than she thought, and she absently twisted her head to wipe perspiration onto the shoulder of her old T-shirt. A damp apron clung to her by frayed tie strings, the tiny flowers on its yellow background faded to brown from the vibrant red when she bought it.
She leaned back to stretch her aching back, grunted, pressing a wrist into the small of her back. Veins stood proud under her skin on the back of her hands and forearms, and her fingers seemed harder and more masculine than she liked. Callouses on the pads of her palm whitened after softening in the dishwater.
Quiet settled on her then, and Cindy turned her ear to the still. The hum of the refrigerator, the whir and thump of clothes in the dryer. She stared at her bare feet, weathered and calloused like her hands, and remembered when she’d worn high heels, without hose. Her strong, shapely legs drew attention when she danced to thundering bass and flashing lights in the nightclubs.
Cindy shook her head and looked down at the dishes again. A spot in the water clear of bubbles reflected her face. Chiseled features, still feminine, refined and clean. Sharp hazel eyes. Mouse brown hair, with some natural wave and curl to it. The image in the still water seemed to shift, to another time. She stared at herself in makeup, smiling.
A hard sigh escaped her, and she ripped the apron from her torso and paced fast down the hall. She shut the door in a spin, and stared at the full-length mirror mounted on it.
Her eyes roved over her body, taking herself in. In a flurry of motion, she tugged the T-shirt off and cast it aside, then stepped out of the worn, tired shorts, and looked at her reflection again.
She’d kept her muscles tight, though her skin was paler than it should be, but still fit tight to her body. She bit her lower lip for a moment, then yanked herself out of her bra. Her breasts sagged some, but not terribly, and she turned, looking over her shoulder, at her butt.
Still perky…not as much as when…before…
A rapid bang on the door ripped a yelp from Cindy and she dove for her clothes, scrambling into them. Adrenaline shook her hands and she fumbled into her tangled bra, hopped on one foot at a time to get into her shorts, and yanked the T-shirt over her head, racing for the door.
She tore it open and the storm door beyond slammed in her face, and she gave another yelp. A box with Amazon’s logo on the side leaned against the wall beside the door as the growling FedEx truck pulled away down the street.
Cindy breathed long and slow through her nose and opened the storm door, collected the package and turned back into the house. When she looked up, she saw the pile of whites on the couch – need to fold those – and the stack of dishes she’d neglected long enough for it to become a chore. She saw the chicken thawing in a bowl on the counter, and seeing the bowl reminded her she had to scrub the toilets. The scuff marks and dirt on the Linoleum tiles in the entry added mopping to her already long to-do list.
Her memory haunted her for a moment with images of herself in tight dresses dancing all night, of drinks bought by horny suitors hoping to win her company for the night, of her youth. But she looked back at the storm door, and the reflection was the woman with lines in her face, her tangled hair in a loose knot at the top of her head, stray locks tumbling down onto her sweaty brow. The woman who looked back at her wore dumpy clothes and no makeup, had dishwater-wrinkled hands and callouses on her feet from hours of vacuuming instead of dancing.
Squealing brakes and blasting exhaust drew her attention down the street. Little bodies with bright backpacks and light jackets tumbled out of the yellow bus and the sounds of their voices and laughter reached her.
And she smiled and waved at the excited little ones racing to her shouting for their mom, but in her mind the wave was goodbye to the young woman in nightclub clothes and high heels.