I am preadolescent and hobbling, foot to foot from my aching legs in the lingerie section of Primark.
Last night, present day, Netflix and I watched blonde bombshell, Scarlett Johansson, supposedly unlock 100% of her brain’s capacity. “Learning is always a painful process,” she says.
I should know. Twice a week, preadolescent me rubs ointment on my legs for the growing pains. It is jelly, cool blue and amorphous. Scent like icing sugar and mint.
The bra between my fingers is probably blue. Larger than the bowl I eat my cereal from. The woman in the next aisle has brown hair. Between her fingers is something black, light-weight fabric and lacey.
The man she is with gathers strands of her hair in his fingers and plants his lips in the nape of her neck. Her mouth curls into a smile. Thin layer of butter rippling against the dulled edge of a knife. Like the margarine I raked across my toast this morning.
My mother is reading another headline two weeks from now, but I am in Primark. Downstairs is throbbing. The man steps nearer to brown-haired-woman and now his torso is pressed up against my back. She takes his hand and disappears into a changing room.
Her perfume smelled like vanilla.
“Have you found something you like?” My mother calls out. My lips are shredded tissue paper, I nod and speak quietly.
“Yes, I have.”
