I am the mirror in the bathroom. She greets me with a smile like she does every morning. Except today is special. I know because of the time she takes primping herself. Washing and styling her hair, shaping her eyebrows, painting her nails. She doesn’t wear makeup because her skin breaks out if she does. Truth is she doesn’t need any, she is pretty as is. Me admiring her admiring herself.
I am the leather bag on her arm, usually doubling up as her purse and her backpack, but right now acting as a shopping cart for a birthday gift. Her idea of a birthday gift for herself is probably a silk ribbon tied around a penis. She dropped me in class once and everyone saw the magazine that slid out. Truth is she did it on purpose, for the cool girls to notice. Here’s a conundrum. Were the cool girls mean because they were cool? Or were they cool because they were mean?
FictionFuture 