She looks at herself sideways in the mirror, pulling her stomach in and out. Ugh. She pulls her hair into a pony tail, then lets it loose. Fuck it. Let the customers complain. She looks at her jeans, sports bra, and orange mohair sweater hanging over the chair against the wall. She has worn those for four days in a row. She puts them on. She looks at herself in the mirror again. Stares for a few minutes, seeing straight through her reflection toward emptiness, then sits on the edge of her bed and hangs her head in her lap. I suppose I had better put some make-up on. She bursts into tears.
MALE GRIEFSunday morning. Naked. Cold. Heater taking too long to work. Grabs quilt from couch. Wraps himself in it. Prickly on skin. Especially penis. Itchy scrotum, nostril, big toe. Goes to bedroom. Puts on boxers. The red ones covered in giraffes. Drags toe along carpet. Itch relieved. Wraps himself back in quilt. Returns to kitchen. Scratches bum crack through prickly quilt. Not comfortable. Get’s angry at quilt. Throws quilt at couch. Goes back into bedroom. Puts on tracksuit. Goes back to kitchen. Coffee made. Can’t remember turning machine on. Smells nice, triggers grief. Farts. Wimp. Hangs head.
How did I do? Got anything to add?