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Ugly Sunday, 7 a.m.

Laura Barcella


��There is something sexy and liberating in looking ugly. In knowing your appearance so well, you are unashamed to admit when it is not up to par. It is a secret to revel in, looking horrible but knowing that it isn’t the 𔄁real𔄂 you; knowing that people will look at you and judge you and make assumptions because your eyes are swollen and red, and last night’s mascara has formed cloudy black circles under your eyes, and your skin is bland and lifeless and fatigued, almost blue with defeat.
��People look at you as you walk down the sidewalk towards the Metro, your hair tangled and wild, flying in lumpy strings behind your shoulders, with the wind. People see your clothes, black and rumpled and worn, smelling of deodorant and sweat, cigarette smoke, faded perfume which has sunk into the fabric of your collar, and someone else’s spilled beer.
��Some make comments about your health, like the flower-selling man who informs you that 𔄁you don’t look too good.𔄂 He calls you Honey and pats your shoulder.
�� People wonder about you. They wonder where you slept last night.
�� All you notice when you glimpse your reflection in the storefront window is your mascara, which has slid and smeared below your eyes, making you look like a seasick beauty queen, and a proud and vulgar street kid, and a washed-out, burned-out prostitute, and a tough club chick who has danced all night, until the sweat dripped from her chin. You could be anyone. It is obvious that you have been someplace.
��The woman in the drugstore is rude to you when you buy candy and cigarettes. Maybe she is intimidated, or thinks you’re a freak, or thinks your hair is too clumpy. Maybe she thinks you’re a bitch-- the looks you give to the world around you, the wary eyes you shift in directions. Maybe she is in a bad mood, or tired from last night, as you are.
�� Old women and men think you are a 𔄁bad girl𔄂 as they inspect you with pity and distaste, clucking their tongues and shaking their heads, and adopting expressions of feeble innocence when you stare back. They watch you, dirty teenage girl inhaling from cigarette, and make comments to each other about how the youth of today have gone straight to hell.
��The three girls at the bus stop make the most dramatic production of your presence. As they watch you walk past, their laughter fades into weighted silence, and their eyes travel carefully over your body, breathing you in, then spitting you out with smirks and whispers. You lock eyes with one of the girls, and you cling to her gaze until you must turn away. Her eyes are as vague and cloudy as yours. You sense their eyes on your back as you walk away, and their banter resumes.
��You want to laugh because none of these people know you. Random moments, walking down the street, and no one has any idea who you are or where you come from or what you do, and why. You are mystery, untouchable and ominous, and so lonesome.
��Your eyes focus straight ahead, toward the glaring orange Metro sign, which silently offers the promise of home, and bed, and sleep.



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