SLIMMING By: N.K. Kingston
Tuesday, May 26th, 2009Black is slimming. It’s a fact, right?
Maude’s a goth-by-default. She has lacy black, and velvety black, and silky black, and denim black. Her favourite, though, is anything but black. She feels the universe has been somewhat cruel.
Her black dress runs from a slash neck to an knee-length skirt, hiding the tight bodice that cinches in her middle. It’s too constricting to walk in quickly, but then, her heels are too high and her suitcase too unwieldy, so it was always a lost battle.
She’s trying to haul the huge case up the stairs. The battle to get it on and off the train had been bad enough, but this is just ridiculous. It’s too large to balance on any single step and too heavy to carry up all of them. Her heels are threatening to snap and her dress to split, and she’s only on the bottom step. She faces down the stairs, backs up a step, hauls the case up after, and quickly up the next step before the weight sends it toppling back down and takes her with it. Rinse. Repeat.
“Do you need a hand with that?”
Maude didn’t see him at first. Black on black vertical stripes. Why hadn’t she thought of that? But he’s thin anyway.
He takes the bottom of the suitcase. His twiggy fingers look close to snapping, but he heaves it up like a weightlifter. They drop it as soon as is safe, a businessman giving them a dirty look for obstructing the top step. Maude feels it like she feels every look, and despite the way her muscles are trembling she makes an effort to shove the case out of his way.
“It’s my books,” she explains to the stranger who helped. “Thanks.”
He waves the gratitude away. He fidgets as she looks at him, and she lets her gaze slide away.
“It was hell on the train,” she says. “You’re the first person to offer to help. I felt like such a loaf trying to get it between the barriers, and everyone just stared.”
“You were embarrassed?” he asks, voice squeaking slightly.
“Oh yeah!” she admitted. “I wished no one could see me.”
“Don’t do that!” He sounds like he was aiming for flattery, but lost himself and ended up with something panicky instead. “People should be able to see you. I mean, you wouldn’t want to actually be invisible, would you?”
“Sometimes,” she says. She starts fiddling with the handles of her case. “Thanks, okay? I think I can manage the rest of the way. Don’t want you to miss your train!”
“Train?”
Maude blinks at his confusion and looks up, but he’s gone. Where, she can’t imagine, or even how.
She heaves the case onto its wheels, almost crushing a small child. The kid jumps back, but the mother doesn’t seem to notice her. It doesn’t stop her blushing, though. She wishes she really was invisible. Some days - most days - it seems like every part of her is constantly trying to attract unwanted attention. Her hair sticks out at odd angles and her body never fits where its meant to. Her feet are too big, and her voice too deep, and absolutely all of her is too clumsy.
The stairs on the other side of the bridge are no easier downhill than the first set were up. The case decides to try the descent in its own.
It opens.
Mortification is too mild a word. That’s her underwear, everywhere.
Of course, no one offers to help. No one laughs, which is nice, but no one helps. She’s sure she can feel their stares - worse, their carefully averted stares. People walk over her shirts and kick her books like they can’t even see them. It’s hard not to just sit in the case and cry.
Eventually she pulls herself together - pulls her suitcase together - and sets off towards the exit. Her ticket disappeared somewhere in the middle of London, something else that had made her wish herself invisible when the ticket collector came by; luckily, she’s kept the receipt. The final hurdle of the day is to convince the barrier guard to let her off the station with the same crumpled proof.
She hovers politely by the barrier. “Excuse me?”
He reads his newspaper.
“Um, excuse me, sir,” she says.
He looks up wearily, but as she opens her mouth to explain the situation he begins talking to the woman behind her.
“Um, I’m sorry,” she says, sharper than intended, “but I have been waiting.”
He lets the woman through the barrier and turns to the man next in line.
“Um, hi? Hello?” She waves a hand right in his face.
When that gets no response she stamps her foot and turns to storm off, intending to clout as many people as possible with her errant luggage. The dramatic exit is somewhat marred when the stamp breaks the heel of her shoe and sends her toppling sideways into the barrier.
It hurts. She hurts. She sits up slowly, aware that she’s probably in people’s way. People who just saw her little display. Why must she have such a temper?
She’s dizzy. Will the barrier guard ignore her is she asks for medical assistance? Her head’s really spinning. Perhaps it’s the result of the brightest blush in medical history, so much blood rushing to her brain she’s having some kind of stroke.
She’s right up against the black pillar, its scuffs mirrored by the mess she’s made of her dress. It’s like she’s disappearing into it.
She almost hits her head again as her case is yanked from her side.
“Lost luggage? Suitcase, anyone? Anyone lose a suitcase?”
“The hell? That’s mine. Who else is it going to belong to?”
No one else seems to notice her. In fact, no one’s paying any attention at all. People walk right past her, right over her, even.
Right through her.
—
©2009 N.K. Kingston
N.K. Kingston lives in the historic city of York, where she gets paid to play with swords and cook from medieval recipes. She writes whenever circumstances gang up on her and has a special fondness for things that go bump in the night.
