What does she feel, this unloved mother, this glowing woman on the brink of something she doesn’t comprehend, when she steps out to the grocery shops with her family, in her dark blue floral dress that’s a little more low cut then she realises.
What does she think when she walks the aisle, picks up the Rye bread like she’s done so many times, looking at a young couple walk past, laughing and flirting and nestled into each other close.
Will she ponder her age, her age of fifty seven, what her teenage years was like, sitting in the drive in, watching the shark claim it’s next victim in the summer of 1974.
Will she think of that time in the shower a month ago, where she pulled on her nipple till it felt like the skin was tearing off, where she fell against the bathroom wall and cried because she didn’t understand.
Is that what she feels, when she places the bread into the shopping basket, forcing a smile to her unknowing husband, who doesn’t know what she’s thinking. Does she feel the pulling sensation, tearing through her flesh, through her fabric, at her consciousness?
Will it make her scream when he asks what’s next on the list, because she can’t stand it – not another day of this routine, this mechanical, every beat, every sweep accounted for, routine of shopping. Will it make her want to tear every item of clothing off her body, till her clothes lay in shreds at her feet, till the coolness of the store air con kisses her nipples, will it make her want to curse, this desire. Curse at the top of her lungs, every obscenity, every humiliating, Degrading slur towards her world, herself, her husband and her son.
Because she doesn’t want this, this life, this family, this husband in this one story home, this old car they’ve had, her old dresses, she doesn’t want anything right now because she wants to fuck. She wants to take the hand of this young man, take him from his young girl and show him that she can fuck. That she wants to fuck. That she lives for, would die right now, for a cock, so thick, so hard, to just ease into her, or slide or slam in roughly, she’ll take anything.
She doesn’t want to think, not about food, not about the mortgage, not about her husband losing his drive to fuck, not about her own lack of interest.
She doesn’t want to think about tomorrow, how she’ll judge herself, her body, her mind, her desires.
All she wants to, this unloved mother, is fuck. To grunt like an animal on the cold hard floor of the store, to be taken savagely like she’s never tried, like this moment in time will allow, as it stops for her, free of judgement and ridicule.
Will they notice? The men, the woman of the store, will they they notice her unexpectedly too low cut dress, revealing her plain white bra and curves of her breasts. Will they wonder or hope or dream or fuck their partners that night to the curves of her breasts?
As she pulls the strap of her dress back up on her shoulder, she wonders as she aches secretly. To no one but herself.
And as her husband directs her down the aisle, she follows. Grateful for his existence.