The Skirt

Everyone stared at my mama. It wasn’t until I got older that I understood those looks. Old women crooked their eyebrows and young women held on to their man. And the men, all types, could not help but crane their necks to gawk or if they were classy, sneak a subtle glance. Mama remained blissfully ignorant. It was an immaturity I came to know that was laden with far more than her girlish attire.

Light flare

He lay stunned trying to piece together the murky night. Drinks with friends, fights with strangers, it was hard to recall what barely seemed real. With extreme need to focus he forced himself to think of what was important, it was supposed to be family, he knew that but all he could see what was in front of him. With his briefcase still in his right hand grip, he dragged himself upright with difficulty and shrugged off any embarrassment. He honed into his beacon and stumbled towards it.

Fashion show

It was a Faberge egg of a world and he was finally part of its stunning inner pattern of jewels. He was there, the centre of attention, all eyes on his work. Proving he could reach the heights he had watched others achieve felt good. The harder work was to come in buffering the reaction that would attack him on all sensitive fronts. He knew this and guarded his feelings with the exercise he had perfected, by repressing and shoving them deep down. It was needless, his creativity would rise above it.