I’m not one of these women lining the walls.
They clutch discarded bags and cardigans, shuffle small shoes into a semblance of order between their own flat-shod feet.
I don’t belong to their tribe. Perhaps I never will.
I have the luxury of empty hands, empty Sundays, the kind to while away with skin, coffee, papers.
I’m not sure this is my ultimate destination, but for now it’s enough.
I can come, I can go.
Slinking in and out, I’m only visible to the husbands, the fathers. I imagine that makes me more dangerous.
I’d like to know what they’re thinking.
Is it as simple as “I’d like to fuck her,” or more complex; “My wife looked like that once.”
It might just be “I wonder where she got that coffee? I’d kill for a coffee right now.”
Would they send back the children in their own image to recover the belly before stretch marks? (Although our society has proven you don’t need to bear children to become fat, or ugly, or just plain old.)
Would they wipe out all the bickering and pointed remarks on the shortfalls of parenting just to bicker about politics? Who used the last teabag? Who used the last toilet roll?
I’m not sure what this is worth to me. If anything.