Agnate

She regally approaches me with a suit made for women, but not all women. Just the women who men are afraid to be with because they’ve smashed the glass ceiling and surpassed their self-proclaimed excellence. She shakes my hand with a “How do you do?” Her eyes are in a different place, maybe Maryland where her son is, but he doesn’t have contact with her anymore. Maybe a different country, where she wishes she could be – where her work doesn’t entirely dictate every action throughout her rigid day. Our sterling silver rings befriend one another as our arms revert back to our sides, and it’s the only thing we have in common.

It’s a week before her wedding, and she wants a Brazilian wax. She nervously lays down, not having much of a pain tolerance. The timid girl working at the spa has an uncle who had a bit too much to drink last night, and took it out on her. She is sore from his anguish and sexual frustration, but has to wear a smile because it’s the job’s requisite. She presses on rectangle strips then carefully, but quickly, pulls them off. The bride lets out shrieks of pain, and it’s the only thing they have in common.

Two children playing at a daycare trade frustrated glances as their structure of blocks scatters to meet the floor. Their parents never tell them where they are going, just doing “grown up” things. In the meantime they enjoy apple sauce with sides of sugary candy, and they have everything in common.