TATER

I see her every morning, her arms encircled around herself in an embrace.  She seems cold and scared, waiting on the platform for the train that will whisk her away to a job she’s barely hanging on to.  Her face overly made up in charcoal shades and dark lipstick, unintentionally goth in a way, her lips drawn down in a slight pout.  Lips that will soon show the fine lines of her cigarette addiction.

Her long brown hair is pulled back tighter than necessary and plastered with gel and Aqua net, looking freshly varnished and stiff, in an anemic ponytail.  Her hair must be thinning, and this is her version of the middle aged straight man comb over.  The ringlets spilling down her back are fine and brittle looking, and seem devoid of proper thickness.  They cling to the back of the cheap, brown suede, western inspired coat, that I’ve seen her in day in and day out.  The one with the tear behind her right pocket, the tear I notice everyday, the tear I’ve often wondered if she’s aware of.  The coat is thin, and can’t be offering this poor girl much in the way of comfort or warmth.  Beneath it she wears a sweater jacket made of synthetic yarn, which clashes with the brown tones of her coat.  Today she also has on a dress which hits below the knee, and is of a clingy rayon nature.

Her figure is pleasant, and has probably been something she could always depend on for attention; wanted or unwanted.  Her shapely legs standing out like an oasis in the desert of her fashion choices.  I follow the line of her calves to the tops of her strappy platform heels.   The kind of heels that would have caused my mother all sorts of grief, if my sisters ever graced our doorstep with them afoot.  They were silver, with hints of glitter, and they staged her perfectly pedicured toenails fabulously.  The left calf catches my attention again as I look for her tattoo.  I’ve seen it a few times, and it always causes me a pang of regret.  What was she thinking, the day she had that heart and dagger seared so largely on that gorgeous leg of hers?  I always look to see if I can read a name there, but she constantly crosses her legs and hides it from my view, and I have never been able to discern one.

I mourn for this girl when I see her on mornings like this.  Her breath on the cold air, the sadness in her eyes, reflecting all the hardships and tough choices she has had to endure.  Her aura screams victim.  I see her as a little girl cringing under her blanket as her mom’s boyfriend slithers down the hall in the dark.  I see her biting those full lips and wishing she was anywhere else, feigning sleep-wishing he were dead.

I see her working her temp job, answering phones and doing light typing or data entry.  She counts down the minutes until her next opportunity for a cigarette break, looking busy and ignoring the fat middle aged married asshole who can’t keep his eyes of her rack or her ass.  The same motherfucker who has made a few overly friendly remarks, paired with one too many lewd smiles.

I see her eating alone in the lunch room, her co-workers having branded her a whore because of the attention she has unwillingly garnered, and of course the trashy outfits she always wears.  I have never seen her smile, I have never seen her engage anyone in conversation.

Of course this is all imagined.  I do this at times when I daydream on the train, creating lives from the tells my fellow passengers exude.  This creation feels too much like reality, and is causing me to want to push it away.

I have wanted to speak to her, to reach out, but have been afraid to be seen as just another predatory male asshole.  I have wanted to pull her to me and hold her, just to say that she is worthy, that she is someone.  I want to take back the years of hurt and helplessness.  I want to protect her from adopting the cold veneered look of scorn, of fear, that I often note in her features.  What world is this, that produces such forlorn and ragged souls?  Why are cruelty and abuse  human traits that can’t be extinguished as easily as someone’s dreams? As easily snuffed out as self esteem ?  I see parts of myself in this girl, parts of all of us in those watchful eyes, waiting for the next foul wave to crash us back down into the shit and mire of existence.

Seeing her every day makes me so damn tired.