Fitting rooms. That’s where I go, Ana said. She stared at the ashes on the end of her cigarette, tiny Christmas lights pushed out the passenger window, a thin golden wrist dangling down and drifting smoke into the night sky.
And not even the nice ones, but those trendy stores with the loud loud music and the long lines. All the girls text and sigh and tap their feet. All the salesgirl are impatient and cheap. The buttons fall within a week. The floors are dirty and the lighting is always too bright or too dim.
But the best part is seeing myself. When I slip out of my clothes and there I am, half naked, on a finger print smudged mirror, or three. The best is when I notice my ribs first. Not just faint outlines but a skeleton on display. If I’m feeling really good I’ll trace my fingers down my shoulders and rest at the ruffled edge of my bra, pressing into the indents of my waist. Sometimes I hold them to my hipbones, gripping them like if someone was trying to snatch me away….