The Invisible Woman

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My life is a parade. As I walk down the street with him, women stop their cars, whistle, and even call out to him. I’m as invisible as a tiny Pekinese.

I love this man, but he belongs to the world, not me. I accept this and wonder what it must be like to be a super star. To look in the mirror, flash that smile, and say, “Damn!”

To walk into a room and have heads turn and women drool with approval. To have the world know you by your face and body and not care if there is a brain attached. Is this a gift from the god of nature or a curse of the soul?

Clearly, it opens doors that are shut to the ordinary. He is ushered in with his E-ticket in hand and given the best, most visible table in the house. The world wants to absorb his beauty and be attached to it. As an accessory to this, I am given the privilege to bask in his glory and invite the envy of the audience. It soon becomes a hollow achievement.

Dinner is spent with him looking over my shoulder at the fabulous women at the table behind me. I dare not turn to look; I already know. The waitress is flush with endorphins and cannot contain her smile as she takes our order. I resist the temptation to move over and let her sit down. Instead, my hand reaches into my purse for my car keys while I ruminate over how much I wish to endure.

He smiles across the table at me and pretends to be listening to my conversation, but his eyes search the room for the location of the pretty Irish waitress and I drift to silence.

The Irish beauty returns with our food and the two of them share knowing smiles of attraction while I watch like a reporter on a scoop.

I must go, I say cheerfully. He hugs me tightly, flashes his winning smile, and declares what an enjoyable time he had. “Yes,” I respond with dishonesty, and head into the parking lot as an invisible woman.


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