The woman chooses the end cubicle with an open window that lets in fresh air. The strong air freshener makes her cough, worse than cigarette smoke does. She acknowledges that entertaining fears emboldens them. Allergies can be imagined. She holds her breath against the toxic fumes, determined to pee as fast as she can.
A breast cancer warning on the back of the cubicle door distracts her. When was her last breast examination… a year ago… or two? She will palpate her breast in all four quarters when she gets home tonight, pressing under her armpit with flat hands.
She lay in the dark this morning wondering about the low grade period pain she felt after using the toilet. She last menstruated three years ago, during the pandemic. In the time of the virus, the woman studied the six phases of infection: attachment, penetration, uncoating, gene expression and replication, assembly, and release.
A fortnight ago her GP explained that the virus doing the rounds now brings fever, joint aches and diarrhea. That information should have soothed her, but the woman can’t resist self-diagnosis. She still has pain in her spine and so imagines a rare and terrible form of cancer that mimics a common ailment that has invaded her while pretending to be an annoying but essentially innocuous infection. The woman recognises paranoia and reigns it in, hushing it as best she can. A sliver of sky is just visible through the high open window. She prays for common sense and calm.
The woman only notices that the breast cancer awareness campaign has been stuck on a full length mirror once she is seated in the lavatory, staring at her jeans still covering her thighs. She would have chosen a different cubicle had she known in advance.
She had a Tinder lover once who lived in a tree house. Up a rickety ladder she found mirrors and blazing candles surrounding his bed. She had never seen herself that naked. The shape and slant of their intertwined limbs and commingled sex organs inspired something like curiosity. Was she marvelling at the contours of their flesh? Or was she disgusted at their coupled narcissism flickering back in so much glass. Would she be able to escape if a candle set the cabin alight? Was the Tinder lover staring at her or at himself in the mirror?
She wanted to see what she looked like at the precise moment she was overcome but the peculiar angle of her curiosity hurt her neck. Now she wonders what expression might cross her face at the point of release on urination but feels oddly shy. She focuses her gaze on the cardigan she designed from leftover balls of blue and green yarn instead. Strangers compliment her on it, but she’s unsure whether she actually likes the pattern. She plucks at the sleeve sagging from the shoulders. If she could have seen this mirrored view before making it, would she have chosen a different design? Despite the natural light the question remains unfathomable.
When she gets home tonight she will remove all the garments that no longer serve her, unravelling them into a nest, interwoven with the shredded fleece of images she wishes to forget. In the hearth she will layer sprigs of dried lavender over sticks of rosemary, lighting the fire with flint sparks from all the cruel photographs. She will wrap her arms around her elbows, stroking her calves, massaging each foot. She will cup her breasts with curved fingers, touching all the unpermitted yearning. She will brush away all her shame until her long silver hair shimmers at the resonance.
~ Liesl Jobson