Hattie
RW Franklin
So here’s the thing about men and me: there is no thing. They just don’t see me. My whole life I’ve been in the background. I like to imagine I have those captivating blue eyes with that contrasting black hair that shines blue in the right light. I like to look in the mirror and pretend I see an hourglass figure. Instead my muddled gray eyes see only the truth: dull graying hair and dimpled thick thighs that shake with every step. In high school my parents always told me it was good that guys didn’t notice me because it meant I wouldn’t have to deal with temptation. What they never knew is that I never wanted the attention of just men. The problem there—I’ve never stood out to women either. I was taught to keep my head down and now that I’m not living at home, it’s hard to untrain myself from those teachings. I want to wear fire red lipstick and show cleavage. I want my skirt to slide up my ham-sized thighs when I sit down. “What are you working on?” The voice near my ear startles me. I turn to find brown eyes and brown skin close to me. I remove the AirPods streaming music straight into my consciousness 39
