The first woman is on stage; her face graces fifteen different magazine covers.
Next to me, in the front row, the second woman growls like a stereotypical Pit,
holding back the blink, pushing and pulling and gnashing her teeth, chewing
on saliva. I introduce myself, and she silently looks away, as if I am invisible.
Only the microphone hears us, and the guitar simply sputters. The third one,
in the back, the grey-haired right hand, blinks repeatedly, checking her phone,
timing the seconds. Moment to moment, she tunes up. The fourth scratches
my shirt, clawing at the skin, searching for fresh meat like a stereotypical Shep,
and I wonder if she’ll swallow my muscle, gnawing on the bone. There are signs.
Later, in my car, editing my face, I walk a wire somewhere between God and dirt,
a curious land that stretches further than anyone’s vision. But in the gas station,
another stranger, woman number five, looks up at me. And it’s the corner
of her eye -- the bloodshot, nervous twitch -- that I remember. As she searches
for snacks, she swiftly jerks sideways. Pretzels in hand, she digs in, licks one,
swallows salt, and reaches out, clutching my arm tight enough to cause a bruise,
suddenly shouting, You are beautiful.
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. I am speaking tonight. I spoke yesterday as well. I enjoy public speaking; I have to admit. But I hope to be helpful when I share my experiences. I have an interesting, unconventional story, for sure. Wish me luck. C.
