Adventures in Solipsism 1: Wendy
There is a girl, twenty-something, with boney shoulders resting against the glass barrier of a bus stop. She is thin, rail thin, but retains generous female proportions. Hot pink sweatpants ride low on her abdomen, allowing a single, forest green thong strap to peek through. A T-shirt, loose and flattering, billows silently in the fresh autumn breeze. Black, low-cut, displaying a xylophone of ribs jutting though an otherwise elegant torso. She doesn’t bother to adjust the sleeves; they slump around her shoulders to reveal zebra-print bra straps. The plunging neckline exposes subtle lumps of cleavage; and as the wind flows past, I might catch a glimpse of those black-and-white patterned bra cups.
Brown-blonde hair is sloppily tied back. Her collar bone rises and falls with her breathing. Defined cheek bones rise from her face, aging it. Perfect nose, oddly shaped lips. A lipstick-smeared Camel Lite bobs in her limp grin. From what I can tell, the girl doesn’t wear perfume; she stinks of of cigarettes.
As prestinely model-like as the girl seems, she possesses one unsightly flaw.
She has no eyes.
She disguises her empty eye-sockes behind massive, bug-eyed sunglasses. The entire world lies slanted on their surface.
Her name is Wendy Lereau.
“Honey, I’m just a distortion.” Wendy tells me.
A distortion. A distortion of me.
