Who She Was Short Story by Jennifer Miller-Davis

She had become a pear.

She was standing naked arguing with her mirror. The mirror was winning. She squinted while examining her soft wobbly bottom and an under-ripe top. She watched as her wet hair dripped down her left breast and responded by tensing up her shoulders.

She closed her eyes remembering when she was young all the girls bud with possibility; while she couldn't graduate from a “training bra” (what exactly were they training them to do?). Every day she was chased home from school by a pack of careless boys who accused her of being “flat as a board.”

She opened her eyes and took another brave look. Her stomach was softer and rounder. Why wasn’t that, “flat as a board,” she wondered. Her thighs flared out like reverse bell bottoms. The naughty hair on her legs was places where it didn’t belong. Her hips were bigger than a wide load truck.

“Shut up,” she told the mirror.

But the mirror wasn’t done.

“What about those extra 20 pounds,” it taunted.

“What about those two new lines on your face and those bags under your eyes?”

Could they have really gotten darker since last night? She squinted again and noticed dust bunnies running around on her bedroom floor.

Wasn’t she, after hanging out with this body for almost half a decade, supposed to pass this examination? Was she the only one who saw young woman everywhere, envied their youth, and wanted to kick their skinny little asses?

Her body was almost completely dry now; those little goosy bumps had taken off. Her insecurities were going to make her late for work. Not that she cared about that. She looked in the mirror and stuck out her tongue.

Ya know, she told her mirror, “There’s nothing like a ripe, juicy, tasty pear!”

She was afraid to look at the clock.

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall, where are some clean clothes?

But the mirror was pissed and wouldn’t answer.

Kimberly worked at The Midwest Center for Data Research for 10 long years and each day found a new reason to be late. Every day some stressed out “clients” ran through the doors and she had to play happy.

They came in selling their opinions about all the useless, too-many-to list products no one needed not even her neighbor, Mrs. Nosachev, who had nothing in her apartment other than a hyper-terrier named Natasha. Apparently, everyone was willing to sell their souls for the right price.

Did anyone really give a crap about the packaging of a box of fro-fro napkins?

Her kids were the reason she planted her feet on the ground every morning, drove 25 miles to work, hit the elevator button, got off on the 16th floor, sat at the front desk, sorted meaningless papers and greeted people she didn’t like.

It was time to find some clean underwear, instead of fighting the gray, the flab and the unwanted hair. She still didn’t understand her life and she was turning 50 in two weeks. Maybe someone would give her the answers in a nicely wrapped gift bag.

Did men have these problems?

She turned to her over-stuff closet for answers. She needed to purge her closet AND her brain. She didn’t have any money to buy anything new, which made it difficult to give anything away. When she was living with her now ex-husband, George, they had always gotten calls from the Salvation Army looking for loot. They had stopped calling now that she was a single parent and didn’t have much to offer.

No one for that matter thought she had much to offer.

She hadn’t been on a date since her divorce over a year ago. Maybe it was her clothing’s fault no one wanted to date an over ripe, frumpy, middle-aged, pear.

The clock wasn’t waiting while she obsessed. Hadn’t she learned anything since her 16th birthday? Maybe there really was some type of TV, radio brain waves tex-messaging directly into her brain. Her company was always looking for new insecurities to market didn’t they realize all they had to do was ask her? She knew African women didn’t obsess about their flabby arms or floundering necks. She also knew she was too damn old for this shit.

She looked at the clock again, damn, she thought. She slipped on the underpants she found hiding under her bed and nearly topped over juggling on one leg. When had “the pear” started wearing underpants and not “panties?” Did she ever wear panties or were “panties” simple a state of mind?

She knew the “G-sting” was out of her league and was quite sure her large ass wouldn’t appreciate it. She couldn’t imagine the thong riding up between her ample mounds of flesh. What was the difference between the two anyway it couldn’t be the amount of fabric riding up her ass, could it? No, she’d stick with her reasonable (albeit ratty) Granny-white, cotton underpants, thank you very much.

Panties were for women who had a nice tight ass and someone to take them off. She had neither.

She rummaged again through her top drawer looking for, and not finding, a bra. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done the laundry. She didn’t mind doing the wash, it was the folding and putting everything away that made her crazy. How many times had she paired socks? Maybe some people found comfort in doing the same repetitive task over and over again, like the clicking rhythm of knitting needles, but she found it dull and tedious. Which explained why she couldn’t find a bra, it was playing hide and seek in one of her many piles of dirty laundry.

Her sister, Step, (Stephanie for those who weren’t family) had been right it was time for some new bras. She hadn’t noticed. Well, that’s not exactly true. She noticed other women’s plums, cantaloupes and watermelons, but she hadn’t noticed she had become, what, droopy. She could look at “droopy” as a positive, the only way she could droop was there had to be enough for gravity to show an interest. Maybe it was time to go shopping. She looked at the clock again, shit; her insecurities were making her late.

She looked through pile number two (maybe each of them needed a friendly name). No bra. Great, she was going to have to walk into work late and braless. Maybe she should bounce into her boss’s office and flash him. That would spice things up.

Suddenly, she remembered when she was 15 some guy dropping his pants inside a building behind her while she stood freezing waiting on the tardy bus. She wasn’t sure why the guy found it exciting to jack off in an abandon building, but at least he was warm. Unlike his dick, her toes were numb and she wondered why her discomfort turned him on. She took a second look to make sure her eyes weren’t lying and thought about walking home, leaving him to finish off alone, but decided to stand her ground. He wasn’t going to come out and ask her for a cigarette when he was finished whacking off, was he?

Maybe he had inspired her all these years later to walk into Dickie’s office and pull up her blouse? She wasn’t sure he even knew her name. Maybe if she flashed her droopy breasts he would remember her name, Kim, that’s K…I… M, you asshole.

She found herself getting excited, but it wasn’t the kind of excitement she was looking for. She wanted to feel her blood pressure rise because someone was putting a hand underneath her shirt, not because she flashed her boss who would tell her to hurry up and answer the phone.

What if she pulled a Sharon Stone on him? Would he wake up if she sat in a chair in front of his desk and spread her legs while her underpants and bra played hooky in laundry pile number 4? Maybe then he would give her that long over due raise.

She looked at the clock again and opened her second drawer. She pulled out a white see through top and put it on. She decided it was time to start going to the gym again. How many sit up would it take to make her stomach flat, she wondered? I’ll stop at the gym on my way home from work she told her self and then “reward shop.” But shopping for bras and panties was torture, stopping at Baskin Robbins for a mint chocolate chip sundae now that was a reward.

There was always the possibility of calling in sick, oh what a yummy idea. She couldn’t remember the last time she had opted out and taken a Kimberly Metter Day Off. Her kids were with their dad for the week and she didn’t have to be home to pick them up from school. She started to get excited.

Her only problem was she still hadn’t found a clean bra. Was she going to call in sick or showing up braless at work? She could hear her boss, “damn, where is that girl that answers the phones?” She was his paid wife; but the real one didn’t seem happy either. Did he know her name? When he was busy doing his wife what went though his head? Was he thinking about her pussy or the bottom line?

Time to pick up the phone and call in sick. Instead, she picked up her breasts and tried to make something resembling a cleavage. She wondered if she should pick up a “Wonder Bra” or an “Anything There Bra?” She couldn’t remember that last time her breasts had a work out except for her own bumbling exploration.

She wanted someone to discover her nipples and lick them to life. Maybe what she lacked in magnitude, she made up for with her nipples. For those puppies had a life of their own—everything got their attention, they were always eager like the active military: on stand by ready and alert. She took her finger and circled her nipple and found her finger wandering back and forth over its target. This was a sure fired way to forget about the laundry, work and her fat thighs. She closed her eyes and listened to her breath grow deeper, slower. She felt something between her legs, but knew nothing was there. She opened her eyes to look at herself in the mirror wondering what the face of desire looked like.

Desire had only meant wanting someone who didn’t want her. She closed her eyes again hoping that would make the memories go away, but closing her eyes didn’t stop her brain. Her hands fell to her side and she stood lifeless until she felt something wet roll down her cheek. She couldn’t remember the last time someone touched her, went insider her, open her up. She couldn’t remember the last time she arched her back or her body withered from pleasure or she made a strange sound from deep within her.

She and her friendly machine had a way of simply relieving the tension, but she wanted to remember the feeling of getting lost in his chest, wrapping her legs around him, caressing every part of his body. She wanted to remember him touching her making her feel alive, her body on fire. All of her insercuties burned away. She shut her eyes again, trying to remember. When she opened them the clock told her work had officially started.

Now, she had to call in sick, otherwise Dickie would humiliated her in front of everyone.

Maybe she should call Step and see what she was doing. Step was home more than at work. She liked bossing her gardener and cleaning woman around.

Step had recently asked her to buy her some pot. Her sister suffered from migraines and wanted some for “medicinal” reasons. She wasn’t sure if getting stoned would help the pain, but she wanted to find out. Kim, always eager to help, had agreed. The only problem was where to buy dope. She added “dope” to her shopping list.

The clock hadn’t stopped and she still hadn’t called in sick. She took off the tight white top and stuffed it back into the second drawer.

Time to practice her sick voice. She remembered once when she answered the phone and, assuming it was a telemarketer, told them that Kimberly Metter wasn’t home. When she learned it was the school, instead of coming cleaning, she told the person to hold on while she got Kimberly. “Hello” she said, trying to sound different than the person who just answered the phone. At least she hung up laughing something she hadn’t done in awhile.

With her mother’s recent death and the ending of her marriage, she’d forgotten how to laugh. Sometime she wished she had Step’s headache to make everything else go away. She knew this meant she didn’t know shit about migraines. The only true physical pain she knew was labor pains and that had produced two (usually) incredible children. Pain with a purpose was always doable, but pain for the sake of pain was cruel. Still, she wondered what she would need to do to turn off everything—a migraine, getting high, having sex. Better add “getting high and sex” to her “to do” list.

She looked at the clock again. Now she was completely irritated. How many times had she looked at that damn clock? She was tempted to pull it out of the wall, but hurting the clock wouldn’t stop time.

She heard herself say aloud, “Hello, it’s Kim Metter and I’m not feeling well.” “Hi, it’s Kim, I’m sick and I won’t be in today.” Better, “Hi, it’s Kim, I have a headache” no that wasn’t good enough, Step worked with headaches. She practiced coughing. God, she was pathetic. “It’s Kim and I quit.” Now, that sounded perfect.

She picked up the phone and dialed. Just when she was about to hang up, she heard Gail’s voice on the other line. “Hello, Midwest Data Research. “Hello, its Kim, I’m sick.” She heard herself blurt out. “Hold on, I’ll get Mr. Scott.” Couldn’t she just take a message for Christ sake? Dickie answered before she could hang up.

“Mr. Scott, its Kimberly Metter.

“What?”

Oh, my God, she was right; he didn’t even know her name.

“Kimberly Metter, I work at the front desk.”

“Oh, Kimberly, of course, aren’t you supposed to be answering the phones?”

“Well, that’s just it” she heard herself sputter and wondered if she sounded remotely sick. “I’m under the weather.”

“Under the weather?”

What the fuck did that mean? “Sick” she said a bit too loudly like Dickie was either deaf or spoke a different launage.

“Sick?” he repeated.

Yes, he was a parrot from a different planet. She was almost done with the call. She coughed for good measure.

“When will you be back,” she heard him ask.

“Tomorrow.” she said and then thought how the fuck should she know when she’ll be back. She wanted to yell, “never,” but repeated herself “tomorrow.” Wasn’t he supposed to say something like, “I hope you feel better?”

Instead she heard him say, “Good, because the Campbell Soup account is due and Gail doesn’t have time to do it.”

Maybe he really did need her. As soon as that thought happened in her brain, she thought she might actually get sick. If a monkey could type that report he’d be happy.

“Kim, Kim?” she heard Dickie’s voice calling out.

“What?” she came to.

“See you tomorrow, right?”

“Right-o” she said and hated herself for saying it. Did she have to become an ass just because she worked for one? “Bye” she said trying to reclaim her dignity, but it was too late. Dickie had already hung up.

She heard the phone hit the receiver and felt a mouse size victory. It was Kimberly Metter Day Off.

She turned on the radio, loud, and heard Madonna singing about the Material Girl. Ice cream sundaes, shopping, finding a dope dealer, she could barely stand it. She began dancing around her bedroom. Moving her body had always been something she loved to do. Her college dance instructor had suggested she study dance. But somewhere along the line her ex entered the scene and she’d gotten pregnant and dropped out.

She grabbed a pair of baggy pants and a sweatshirt from pile number 1. Putting on her socks proved more difficult than her pants. It was one thing to pull elastic waist pants over moving hips, but quite another to balance on one leg while pulling on a sock.

She wondered how strippers managed to take off their clothes and look sexy simultaneously. She’d probably make a lot more money taking off her clothes than sorting papers. Hell, maybe it wasn’t too late. The only problem was men who went to strip clubs were after fantasy and her middle aged body was no fantasy—it was a seriously reality.

Madonna finished singing about the same time she was out of breath. All she needed was to find her purse and shoes and she was ready. She took one final look in the mirror and dubbed herself Queen Frump. It’s time she got into touch with her inner sex goddess Step had told recently. Forget breakfast, the laundry, the bills, and forget calling, Steven’s, orthodontist back. All of it could wait. Look out Kimberly Metter was on a mission. She was going to find a dope dealer or her inner sex goddess before the day was over.

Jennifer Miller-Davis
From her upcoming book, "How She Was"
(WWTW ?????)
Jennifer Miller-Davis
millerjennifer@comcast.net