Another attempt at a short fiction piece.
Pretty in Pastel
Pastels are only pretty in the “ladies wear hats on Easter” kind of way. They should never be the main color scheme of an outfit for more than once every two weeks. Anna has this idea that all boys-turned-girls wanted to dress like an old southern conservative that speak in soft vowels and never drink anything but sweet tea and ice water. She will come back from the local thrift-shop with large plastic bags overflowing with ruffled collared chemises and ivory colored pencil skirts. The bottom of the bag is always stretched by the thick square heels of some faded pair of scuffed shoes. “What the hell is all this?” I’ll ask, holding up a sagging blue silk camisole. She’ll bustle around the room in a pair of jean cutoffs and some low cut t-shirt folding up her latest gifts to me. “I just want you to look nice.” Sometimes I think that my wearing Gap and Nike seriously offends her as a femme naturale. We converts can’t simply take over their brands. Plus, why would we want to score a v****a if we’re still going to wear oversized sweatshirts? While I end up shoving her purchases back into their respective bags, I do let her paint my nails Seashell Glow. After all, after stealing her sex organs, the least I can do is give over a small part of myself to her Southern Lady dream.
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It has you written all over it.
I love it, dearest, and hope there's a new installment coming soon. ^^