Sunday, November 13, 2005
I try to concentrate on the task at hand, although feeling you touch me is very distracting, and I can hear some sort of commotion going on around us.
Several sets of footsteps go past, one doesn't quite manage to miss my feet and kicks my ankle, swearing at my being in her way. Another woman tells her companion (and everyone else within earshot) that I am a disgusting whore who deserves nothing better. Her companion tries to silence her, as she sees the tears start to roll down my face, but knowing I'm in pain just eggs her on, and she mutters about trollops and tramps the rest of the way out of the diner.
Others leave as well, most in silence, although every once in a while I hear a whispered agreement with the nasty woman. The occasional man who comments is quickly cut off by his date or his wife before he can really get anything less condemming out of his mouth.
Through all this you calmly eat your pie, and continue to stroke me, reassuring me that I am none of the things I've been called, that you value me and wouldn't trade me for all those "proper" ladies, that I am loved for exactly the woman I am. You can and do tell me all these things with a single touch. You wipe away my tears and pull my face closer to you, reminding me that my work is not yet finished.
Several sets of footsteps go past, one doesn't quite manage to miss my feet and kicks my ankle, swearing at my being in her way. Another woman tells her companion (and everyone else within earshot) that I am a disgusting whore who deserves nothing better. Her companion tries to silence her, as she sees the tears start to roll down my face, but knowing I'm in pain just eggs her on, and she mutters about trollops and tramps the rest of the way out of the diner.
Others leave as well, most in silence, although every once in a while I hear a whispered agreement with the nasty woman. The occasional man who comments is quickly cut off by his date or his wife before he can really get anything less condemming out of his mouth.
Through all this you calmly eat your pie, and continue to stroke me, reassuring me that I am none of the things I've been called, that you value me and wouldn't trade me for all those "proper" ladies, that I am loved for exactly the woman I am. You can and do tell me all these things with a single touch. You wipe away my tears and pull my face closer to you, reminding me that my work is not yet finished.
