She had a suitcase with her and put it in the luggage rack above my head, then sat down next to me. She looked normal: she had sleek hair, wore a winter coat, checked out her iPod Touch like any other human being would. She was a bit pale, but hey, I look like a ghost myself during the winter, so who am I to judge her for that? But the thing I couldn’t ignore, was the feeding tube in her nose. It was an earmark of the disease we cannot see.
I had a secret — a terrible secret that I’d kept from my husband throughout our entire relationship. In fact, it was so bad that I thought it would tear us apart if I ever told him. It was something I hadn’t been honest about before we got involved. Even after we got together, I didn’t have the guts to go to him and come clean; that’s how ashamed I was. I feared that if I ever told him, he was going to tell me to go take a hike.
I was watching the people on the platform from my seat in the train. I watched their every movement, and especially whether they were watching me, too. I almost ducked if they were. During that split second when they weren’t looking, I dug up the cheesy bread stick that was hidden in my bag, tore off a piece, and ate it as fast and secretly as I could. This almost sounds as if I’m a celebrity avoiding paparazzi. The truth, however, is not nearly as glamorous. It’s even a tad ridiculous. I realised that when I was looking around suspiciously, nibbling at my cheese stick. Add massive sunglasses covering almost my entire face and the image would’ve been complete.
I am walking down the street, when that bottle-blond girl from my University class passes me. She hurriedly acknowledges me with a smile before hurrying onwards to the seminar for which we’re both late. I scowl; her smile is crooked and her bright red lipstick only enhances that. It draws way too much attention to her teeth, and as she walks away from me her behind jiggles — badly. She really shouldn’t be wearing those leggings like they’re a pair of jeans — they’re not — and just like everyone else she can’t pull it off.
For the past two years I have watched the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. I watch for the over-the-top lingerie creations, the cliché pop sensations that turn up, and to see who’s my favourite model this year. I watch to see the backstage footage of the girls telling stories about their lives, and to see them interact with each other — and the pop stars. Basically I watch to see a well-constructed, super-American circus show. There’s not a moment, however, when I’m thinking of the girls’ bodies and how they should affect me. Cause they don’t.