My boss' wife (is she Polish? Ukranian? I can't tell) stands over me. Her blond hair, so pale it's almost white, falls across her eyes. She's smiling, but it's a little bit pinched, and there's a hardness in her eyes that says: "Don't fuck with me."

"This will be ready, right?" she says. "Right?" she repeats.

"It will be," I say.

She stands very close to the fake cow I'm making, frowns at the wrinkles.

"There's wrinkles," she says.

"It's wrinkles or seams," I tell her.

She stands back.

"You'll come in tomorrow?"

I nod. Shrug. I'm not doing anything else, really.

~

I'm out of town that weekend, sorry. :( Happy birthday, though!

Thanks. :) Don't worry about it. I hope the weather is good for your hike!

Thanks. :) We'll catch up another time.

Of course.

~

Sunday is my favourite in the shop. I'm the only one in.

Sun slants through the high windows above the garage style doors. My music is loud, shaking dust from the old fibreglass whale that looks over the main floor.

I wonder when my last day off was, but it doesn't really matter. They only make us work eight hours here, and that's pretty much a vacation.

The seams get tighter, the wrinkles get less. I sit down for a cup of tea, and no one keeps an eye on me. It's nice.

~

I don't even get an RSVP from the second one. I just get an invite for an event at his place, for the exact same time and date as my birthday party.

I decide not to say anything, but politely decline his invitation, stating I have other plans.

Is it my imagination that he sounds relieved when he responds?

~

I'm scratching before I realize I'm itchy.

My pinky finger on my right hand, my middle on my left.

What is it about those two fingers? What am I allergic to?

I run through the products I've been using in the past few days.

No fibreglass. It can't be that.

Sawdust, but so little. Hot glue isn't it. Who's allergic to hot glue? No one.

Spray glue? No.

Superglue?

I think about the fumes rising from the open bottle, sharp and biting enough that I keep my face away from it.

It's probably the superglue.

~

"My mom's in town that whole weekend," she says. She looks very sorry, both about missing my party, and having to visit with her mother.

"No worries," I say, I smile. "I understand. Family. If she ends up going to sleep early, pop over for a drink."

"I will," she assures me. "Maybe I can feed her wine..."

~

The cow job ends. I leave the fx shop for a new one, a really new one, in a disused newspaper factory.

There are stickers on the door, declaring certain rooms tested and electrically safe. Or the locks have been changed, and please see security for a new one.

Our shop is a partially walled off nook, one floor down from where they used to print newspapers. It's tiny, and loud: the concrete hallways do nothing to muffle sound.

HEARING PROTECTION MUST BE WORN, the warning label on the door reads, but it's old, from the printing press days (last year?) and nobody heeds it anyway.

~

"Sorry, my kid is sick--"

"I'm really busy that day--"

"Next time, for sure--"

One by one they drop out. All but one. Finally, I just text him, the last, and tell him not to bother coming.

I cite vague reasons -- my roommate is really sick, most other people have had to bail because of perfectly legitimate reasons, etc -- and end it with a smiley.

Okay. Thanks for letting me know. Let's catch dinner sometime soon. We'll have some drinks then.

Sure. :)

I take all the unsent letters and packages off my bed, and wrap them, and address them. I keep my head low so my roommates can't see my wet eyes.

I write a letter to my depressed friend. I keep it light, funny. I use the stationary I think she'll like best. I fold it neatly and tuck it in the tin filled with little presents and inside jokes.

It doesn't matter really. Does any of it really matter?

When I go to the post office, I wear the Jeff Goldblum head earrings my best friend made me. She made sure to use earring hooks that I wasn't allergic to. They bring me a degree of comfort.

Instead of partying when I get back, I put on my house dress and eat take-out sushi. I don't bother making the cake. I can feel the pity eyes of my roommates. They let me choose the movie.

I pour a lot of gin into my soda, and go to bed early. My self portrait sits silently, untouched, the floor littered with tubes of colour and paint stained yogurt containers.

Miles to go.

.

Rosie.

Before&After