Pieces Of Me

I’m walking along a road. It’s long and windy; I’ve been walking it for about half an hour now, but it feels like half a day. My feet hurt beyond belief: it’s these fucking heels. I would give just about anything for a pair of foam-lined sneakers at this point, hell, even a pair of fucking flats would be better than this; but as usual, it wasn’t up to me. Heels and a short skirt, that’s what he had said; and that’s what I was wearing, like a good girl.

A car full of teenage boys speeds past, one of them whistles at me and another calls out something like ‘slut’ or ‘whore’. Something derogatory I’m sure; I’m not really paying attention. Although what does catch my interest is why a group of boys, probably in grade eleven or twelve by the looks of it, would be out so early? School doesn’t start for at least another two and a half hours. Maybe one of them just got their licence and decided to cut ‘phat laps’ around St Lucia? Yes, I do recall a flash of red on the windscreen as the car went past. How very fucking macho. Although I’m glad they didn’t pull over and harass me further, I have to wonder why. Am I not attractive enough? Is it the hair? I didn’t straighten it this morning like I usually do. Maybe the skirt isn’t slutty enough? So I’m hot enough to whistle at and harass from a moving vehicle, but not attractive enough to warrant pulling over for? There were three of them, they could have easily overpowered me and thrown me in the boot if they wanted. I haven’t seen another car for at least twenty minutes, and no-one knows where I am; it would be the perfect crime, so to speak. I should really buy some mace or learn kung-fu or something.

I check my watch: it’s 6.36. Twenty-four minutes.

I’ve just realised how fucking cold it is out; I knew I should have put on a jumper, or at least packed one in my backpack. I rub my hands together and blow warm air on them. It’s futile; a temporary fix. What I really need are gloves. But I hate gloves.

6.37. My backpack is getting heavy now. Maybe there is something I can throw out to make it lighter? No, I packed everything he said, everything he had specifically asked for. I hope it’s not that far; what had he said? Meet me at the park at 7 and we’ll take it from there. What the fuck does that mean? We’re just going to play it by ear? Go with an impulse? Act on a whim? Maybe this was a bad idea; I mean what if he’s a paedophile or a rapist or something? Again, Alycia, the mace/kung-fu idea is the best idea you’ve had all week.

I see something. Something in the distance. Something which isn’t bitumen or gravel or dirt. It’s a park: the park. My heart skips a beat. I check my watch again: 6.40.

As I get closer I hear something behind me, a car. I haven’t seen a car in at least fifteen minutes; is it him? I turn around: no, it’s a police-car. It slows to a halt and two female officers get out; one with straight blonde hair and the other with short brown.

‘Good morning.’ The blonde haired one says.

‘Hi. What’s going on?’ Thankfully I avoid stuttering. Fuck; why do I always feel guilty around cops?

‘Well,’ says the one with brown hair, ‘we’re just doing a routine patrol, there’s been a couple of break-ins and stuff like that in this area recently.’

Great, just what I fucking needed to hear. ‘I see.’

‘May I ask what you are doing out this early?’

No you may not. It’s none of your fucking business Blondie.

‘Well, I...ah, I’m here on a photo shoot. I’m meeting the photographer in the park here.’ Really Alycia? That’s the best you could do? I thought you prided yourself on being a proficient liar.

The officers exchange looks. ‘Do you know him?’

God damn it. Where the hell is this going? ‘No, I set it up online.’