Enough

Catherine in her flat house shoes, watch swinging at her wrist, hair in a bun tighter than knitting climbs the stairs again, feet heavy with reluctance, fingers gripping the polished handrail, potato-mud beneath her nails, pill of anger on her tongue. Her tea sits cooling on the kitchen counter.

Her father waits white as the sheets, one thin claw above the covers, gummy eyed, smells of old breath and empty cupboards, coughs stains onto the sheets.

My Inadequate Hair

“If only,” he said, “you had curly hair.” We were lying on a blanket in the sun, in the park. The newspapers were heaped at our feet. I had my head in his lap and he was pressing his fingers into my scalp, rubbing in small tight circles. “Oh well,” I thought. It had been fun.

A Short Story In Which She Finds Her Feet

They are in a shoebox wrapped individually, in tissue paper, packed toe to ankle. The box is under her bed, right back against the wall, behind a tennis racket and a suitcase of old books. She has forgotten where she put them and almost, that she had them at all. She unfolds them one at a time; runs a critical finger over the scuffed heels and slightly bent toes, rubs the smooth strong arches with the palm of her hand; picks at the painted nails.
She tries them on.
They fit just fine.