During my lunch break I wrote something on both sides of a napkin at Berea Coffee and Tea. It was spurred on by something a woman there said. My writing seems to always need to be grounded in some factual bit, some bit of reality that actually happened, and then the rest can be imaginative.... So here is what I wrote:
"What does that mean?" she asked, pointing with a sharp finger at the "V" on her coffee cup lid.
The V seemed so stark, a thin-lined letter on a black plastic lid. It could mean anything and this is what scared her suddenly: a black mark on her self, a letter signifying something unknown even to herself. Any manner of label could point to her -- vicious, virgin, voluptuous, vixen, virile, vacant, vigorous, vibrant, vague. She could be any of these. It could define her body: vaginal, vacuous, virginal, virile. She didn't want to be known by one defining word, especially not one with a V.
"I'm not a virgin or vixen. I'm not vicious and I am not voluptuous, whatever that is supposed to mean," she said as she glanced down at her Dolly Parton bosom. "I'm not vacant. I have heart, feelings -- I care damnit! I'm not in a rush for no reason. I've got things to do to help people!"
Her neighbors on stools turned their heads away, as the barista looked at her and simply said, "The V is for Vanilla Nut, the Flavor of the Day, like you ordered."
No comments:
Post a Comment