blinding. I am a proofreader. I look for mistakes. I gather errors.
She’s a little wobbly, with solid flesh rolling over the waist of her skirt, heels too high and narrow to support her width. But it’s not just the body, she’s a wobbly person. She lacks purpose.
I work hard to still the slight pinch that always comes into my expression when I hear my name aloud. It’s the wrong name, the name of a woman who is softer around the edges than I am, more generous, more graceful. I live with the disjuncture, I am too honest to change it.
Display a thing and it becomes invisible.