Cunt

She sat statuesque amidst the movement of the subway — almost out of place. Everything about her was proper and discipled; everything perfect by design. Short red hair combed with a part to the side; clear alabaster skin and gray eyes were accented with frameless glasses. She looked straight ahead with her hands resting on her lap, oblivious to what was happening around her. She wore a crisp white blouse with a tailored tweed jacket with browns, rusts, greens and blues: a complicated menagerie of colour. Washed designer jeans accented with a black belt and complimented by black leather boots with silver buckles. Beside her on the floor was a matching leather bag. When she did move, it was methodical; exact. 

I could not help but notice her, and with great stealth, watched her. With as little movement as possible, she looked to her bag and reached for what looked to be a small sandwich wrapped in foil. With precision she adjusted the foil to expose the sandwich and lifting it to her mouth and took several small bites. As she chewed, she rested the sandwich in her lap. Once finished, she looked down and covered the remaining sandwich carefully and returned it to her bag. She then returned to her perfect position. As I continued to watch her in glances, there was a moment of recognition for something I hadn’t noticed before — on the right breast of her jacket was a small off-white label with the word CUNT printed in red block letters; easily missed in the colours and pattern of the jacket, but now impossible not to see.

Shifting in place as I stood, I struggled to reconcile what I saw and even define what it meant — was the label CUNT for all to see meant to be provocative, was it a warning, or simply an invitation to something beautiful. I could not help but imagine folds of pink wet flesh, a swollen clitoris, and a patch of perfectly trimmed red curls. It was a fantasy I almost started to fall into when I felt the subway slow for my stop. As I made my way to the door, I glanced at her one last time and I saw her staring at me. She winked and smiled ever so softly as I made my way through the crowd to the door.

Every now and then I wonder about that small off-white label with the word CUNT printed in red block letters and imagine folds of pink wet flesh, a swollen clitoris, and a patch of perfectly trimmed red curls. 

 I doubt she thinks of me at all.

 W

image Aneta Pawlik