The Weaker Sex

She has to go dance now. He. He has to. The stage is bright and all the faces are nothing but a crowd. Faces with no names. Life stories and memories in their heads. Strangers to the strangers and friends to their friends.

Her hair is so big you’d think it’s a halo. Her fingernails..long, curved and red, her eyelashes so big they smear her skinny penciled eyebrows, her shoes –high and uncomfortable, lifting her up to a higher ground. She’s on a pedestal. She is a statue of himself. She is Katie Cleopatra.

And she’s dancing. Automatically. It’s a talent. Not to feel anymore. It’s been too long. She’s a product from a newer generation. The futuristic notion of robotic efficiency. Who needs feelings anyway?

The song’s over. She heads back to the dressing room. The hall gets longer by the day.

Sitting there, she takes the heavy eyelashes off, removes the makeup from her face and the halo off her head. In the mirror now she sees the reflection of a boy she remembers from somewhere. A familiar face resembling the innocent kid she once was. Only her Adam’s apple giving away, reminding of the truth. Sleepless night after sleepless night, reckless whims, man-made herbs and unhealthy vitamins, waking up in places she sees for the first time in her life, next to complete strangers, bedrooms with no beds. That’s the person she is now. That’s the person he’s become. Remains of him. Pieces of the shattered person he once was. Which one was the weaker sex again?

Image from https://fineartamerica.com/art/paintings/drag+queens

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