The Rain

Chapter 16

It’s anyone’s guess what you wear to a pub whilst on a date, obviously a dress isn’t appropriate and I don’t want to come across too casual in jeans. I suppose it’s funny how George is the first guy I’m actually trying to impress.

Guess I’ll go for my worn black jeans, the type that indicate that you might need to buy new ones. They are the closest thing I can get to date appropriate. However, the only top that would be remotely acceptable is my heavy knit blue jumper that had a low turtle neck going on. I ponder on buying some new clothes, whilst briefly considering raiding my mother’s wardrobe. Nothing she owns is from this decade, all belonging with a 1950s housewife. So I’ll have to just be comfortable with what I have, and pray to the gods that George doesn’t take the date seriously.

A jumper should be presentable enough for a pub, whether it is suitable for a date is another thing.  My personality shines through just a little in these clothes, considering it’s not a dress that clung to me for formal dinners, or the bland clothing that was picked out for me to make me invisible to boys.

Glancing down at my phone again as I sit to see what I can do with the minimal amount of make-up that I own, a groan escapes as the time get closer to the date. My eyes fixate on my skin in the mirror, the one thing that has always brought me confidence is my bare skin. To me it’s pretty decent, I have a few freckles here and there- not enough to make me want to cover them. For some reason make-up never agreed with my skin and I always felt worse with it on.

Sighing to myself in the mirror, I accept that this is the best it’s going to get. I scruple my hair up a little to give it some volume and for it to seem unruly, all while pulling a serious pouty look. I roll my eyes and push my hair behind my ears, accepting the fact that I can never come across as sexy.  No change of clothes or make up can get rid of the baby face that is bestowed upon me.

Grabbing my phone, I check again to see if I have had a reply back, I mean I can only assume it’s from George. The wording of the text was very ominous, very little context, just that I should head to the local pub later on this evening, not even a specific time, again being very vague by suggesting to arrive around 7ish.

Rummaging around my bag, I make sure I have everything I need. Just as I grab my ID from my nightstand a voice booms into my room. “Where do you think you’re going?” She appears in the door way, now in silk pyjamas but a glass filled with more than a double still remained. Her presence tarnished the room, and the excited flutters in my stomach changed to knots of anxiety.  

I didn’t dignify her remark with a response and continued to get ready. You could tell that she was waiting for me to cower and cease what I was doing, so I actively avoided eye contact. She hates silent treatment so it’s something that I haven’t really used on her, it was if my brain had fused and is just doing whatever it wanted to and my body was just in for the ride.

“You look like a whore, you’re not going anywhere like that. Jesus Christ Eva have some self-respect.”
I shove on my battered trainers, before pulling my jacket on and tugging out my hair. Tears of anger were forming in my eyes, without brushing them away I look at her with no fear. “I don’t give a fuck”. An idea came to my head in this spur of rebellion, which in all honesty is becoming more frequent.

I’ve always hated the length of my hair. I glace at my mother who was watching every move that I make. In one swift motion I grab the pair of scissors that I use with my knitting and grab a chunk of my hair and snip it off without a second thought. There was the sound of air being sucked in, but I wasn’t sure if it was from me who was about to panic or her about to unleash hell. It took a while to get the scissors all the way through and that was when my mother started screaming. But once it was off and I felt the newly stray hair hit the floor, it was as if I had become lighter in every sense of the word.