Which version of me do people see?
I ask myself first thing in the morning, all the fluid still puffing my face. My hair an absolute catastrophe of errant waves and wisps. It seems almost disingenuous that it isn’t this one.
And when I’m in the gym, is it this one? Gyrating (some would say, uselessly?) on the elliptical. Pumping my shoulders and arms with weights and pushups. Panting through burpies. Sweat and salt, and not in the good ways.
Or while vacuuming the office, and I’m finding a dead moth folded on the floor, in a corner. Picking it up delicately by the wing, so as not to disturb it, and tossing it over the balcony as a proper burial. Maybe her?
After a shower, is it the me who is slathering myself in age defying oils and moisturizers. Spritzing on perfume. Matching my bra to my panties. Wondering if they are too worn yet, too passe. Does underwear actually go out of style?
Walking out the door, locking it behind me. Which version of me is my outfit? Straight to work me. Polished for dinner me. Playful and creative me, regardless of the destination. Do my sunglasses nail it into place? I might have to switch them out.
Coming home, me. Exhausted and showering, slipping on the least amount of clothing, melting slowly into bed. Or me, tipsy and sexy, sending you videos as I undress. Remembering what it was like to have you in my bed. In my kitchen. In my life.
Or is it this me, quietly drinking tea, looking out the window at all the cars passing by. Normal people, normal schedules. Imagining that they all have families, purpose, radios on in the background. Futures spread out grandly before them, like wide open plains or the autobahn. Any number of possibilities. All the money in the world. Passing hands, theirs for the taking. Muscles and blood and bones under skin, behind faces, powered by pure will.
That was also me.
