I
On
Saturday, Jenna talks in her sleep. She rambles on about kittens and twisty
slides, or chocolate covered rabbits. Her mouth gapes open, her arms stand
still at her sides. She wakes up late morning or early afternoon. She bolts
herself awake and stares at a blank face in the glossy mirror. She walks away.
She makes lunch and focuses on her homework. She lets her black pen scribble economy
notes and preps herself for her next test.
Jenna
doesn’t have a license. She stays at home and focuses. Focuses on cleaning,
focuses on school, focuses, focuses, focuses. She focuses on anything she can
so she doesn’t think that she’s trapped in her own apartment. She cooks and
cleans and for a few moments allows herself to live in her miniature domestic
dream. She pulls her hair tight away from her face so she can focus on being
mom for the three of her roommates.
Jenna
prefers to wear sweats. She saunters down prison painted walls. She turns into
her own bedroom ready to slumber again for hours. Ready to breathe in the night
air, comforting each silence with the soft feel of polyester fleece on her
neck. She allows herself to talk to her dreams, mumbling to the galaxies as she
drifts off to sleep.
II
On
Saturday, Sara barely opens her eyes. She keeps them shut, afraid to allow her
corneas to be exposed to the searing sunlight. She hides her head under ebony
satin for hours until her head begins to hurt. She steps off her mattress,
letting the rayon grip at her toes. She stares at a blank face until she
decides it’s time to get ready. Her boyfriend waits at his apartment. She
smears jet-black over her eyelids, and allows her ethnic beauty to shine.
Sara
drives a clunker. It slams into every crack and pothole in Colorado Springs,
leaving her with a few flats and a scratched bumper. She cusses under her
breath, and stares at the other drivers envying their new autos. She pulls in
to his apartment.
Sara
wears tight jeans and combat boots. She dresses the way she wants to, pulling an oversized
slashed t-shirt over her head. She preps herself. She’s ready for whatever may
come, ready to experience love, heartbreak, and redemption all in one night.
Her roommates don’t see her until mid-Sunday morning.
III
On Saturday, Alex face-plants onto the floor. She lets the rough
industrialized carpet scratch her skin, and waits before she has to go to work.
She stares back at a blank face for twenty minutes before slapping two pounds
of fake on to her visage. First a layer of creamed foundation perfectly formulated for
super white women like her, a dusting of “classic ivory” powder, along with a
sprig of rosy healthy blush, line of ebony Egyptian kohl and she’s done. She waits. She sits. She wastes time before shoving off to work.
Alex drives a stick. As she drives her "golf cart" around in a sea of monster trucks,
she receives odd looks. She switches seamlessly from first to second to third.
At every stoplight she catches glimpses of people cranking their necks to see
if she’s really driving a new manual. Her fingers caress the shift, her foot
rests on the clutch, and she flies past nosey busy bodies.
Alex
wears five-inch heels when she feels like it. It may make driving a stick
difficult but she doesn’t care. She clanks down hallways, turns on her heel and
struts. She walks out into the milky moonlight ready to howl at the stars until
mid-morning. Ready to take on the night and embrace the cool midnight air, all
while wearing those five-inch heels.
Alex falls asleep around 11:30 P.M. Shoes off, face plastered on her
cotton pillowcase, breathing in her own drool.
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