Walking down State Street, quarter to nine in the evening, this chilled October Thursday, women of all types sling their bags over their shoulders, lock their bikes to the racks, flip their hair out of their eyes, suck their belly in, let the rolls hang out over their belts... I find myself thoroughly entertained.
All the honey I put in my coffee sits saturated in the last three sips of my now cold cup. As I notice this honey concentration wash the bitterness from my mouth, I wonder if this is what women taste like? Do men crave that flavor? or for a woman’s saliva in a long passionate kiss to wash their soured work day away?
Headbands hold stray wisps of hair into obedient alignment with the longer hair tugged into a ponytail. iPod earbud wires wriggle and dangle along the laced trim of a ruby red ribbed tank top layer. The teddy-bear-tan cardigan strains against modest breasts, the top button barely clinging to the button hole.
A birdlike chatter echoes from behind the coffee counter, soprano pitched story-telling bounces off the chrome espresso machine until it lands comfortably in a buttered croissant or a plush hooded sweatshirt.
Tight pencil jeans push a blonde’s already endangered buttocks into a flat small blip on her stick straight frame though she cranks her hips with effort as she walks, as if trying to force a feminine curve out of a twiggy gate.
A large raspy faced woman tucks her lower chin underneath the hood of her turtleneck and pulls the collar of her berber-lined jean jacket up the sides of her face. The zipper of her jeans screams in anguish but I see the button has escaped and found relief. The leather of her flats squeaks and squawks each step, speaking for her muffled suffocating toes. If you listen carefully, her shoes are predicting her bone spur growth in frustrated physician tones.
Fruity perfume tickles my nose as a soft cushy redhead quietly steps up to the bakery case, and her green eyes glow when they discover the oozing chocolate layer cake slice, frosted in mocha chocolate ganache.
I myself must carry my thirty-three year old body to my bicycle, allow the cool humid autumn air finger its way through my wool sweater, around and under my indian shawl, and prick my dry white skin. My eyes may catch a few lost wondering bugs while my heart is fuel-injects with the cup of coffee I drank. While I pedal, I will wish that stubborn ten extra punds would melt off my belly and rump. I will wish for toned thighs and firm upper arms. And even in the eery darkness spotted in amber streetlights, I will watch for other female figures, wonder how I compare, how they view me, how they may influence our community, our world, if we do so together, and try to feel empowered in the wondrous ways of we women.
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Comments: 17
What the heck does that mean?
Where are the writers?
"The zipper of her jeans screams in anguish but I see the button has escaped and found relief." Oh, goodness!
As far as being a woman and trying to achieve some crazy benchmark of beauty or femininity imposed only by a consumer society , I gave up after I reached 40 . Society demands mean nothing now compared to the strain gravity alone puts on a body after 40 …..
Now for a small critique.
I did notice a few minor grammer problems in this paragraph:
"All the honey I put in my coffee sits saturated in the last three sips of my now cold cup. As I notice this honey concentration wash the bitterness from my mouth, I wonder if this is what women taste like? Do men crave that flavor? or for a woman’s saliva in a long passionate kiss to wash their soured work day away?"
Something like this might work a bit better:
"All the honey I put in my coffee sits saturated in the last three sips of my now cold cup. I notice this honey concentration wash the bitterness from my mouth, and I wonder if this is what women taste like? Do men crave that flavor? Or for a woman’s saliva, in a long passionate kiss to wash away their soured work day?"
And I felt this paragraph is a bit of a run on sentence:
"Tight pencil jeans push a blonde’s already endangered buttocks into a flat small blip on her stick straight frame though she cranks her hips with effort as she walks, as if trying to force a feminine curve out of a twiggy gate."
It probably could use another comma or semi-colon:
"Tight pencil jeans push a blonde’s already endangered buttocks into a flat small blip on her stick straight frame, though she cranks her hips with effort as she walks, as if trying to force a feminine curve out of a twiggy gate. "
OR
"Tight pencil jeans push a blonde’s already endangered buttocks into a flat small blip on her stick straight frame; she cranks her hips with effort as she walks, as if trying to force a feminine curve out of a twiggy gate."
I particularly liked "A birdlike chatter echoes from behind the coffee counter, soprano pitched story-telling bounces off the chrome espresso machine until it lands comfortably in a buttered croissant or a plush hooded sweatshirt." Great imagery with active verbs.
Thanks, Laura.
I was starving for, as evidenced by my earlier eruptions, good critiquing, even though this was an unedited twenty-minute crash writing spree.
Thanks again, everyone.
Thank you.
And Dad, yes, I needed to fix that grammatical accident. I guess I liked the alliteration?
I'm impressed with the level of detail in your observations; you don't just list what you saw, you interpret it in a way that I think most women can relate to (and some enlightened men too).
Let's face it, women do watch other women and compare themselves to them- why do we do that? Is it our basic insecurity in a male-dominated world that drives us to try to find someone we think we compare favorably to?
I had to giggle when I read this line:
"The zipper of her jeans screams in anguish but I see the button has escaped and found relief."
Thanks for sharing this!