Stiletto Sisterhood

Original Edition: Eshe| Never apologize for who you are

Some people had a knack for punctuality, where others, like Eshe Diallo, were always scurrying after life, two steps behind and constantly late. And this time, she'd brushed the razors edge.

I'm here. I'm here. I'm here, thank freaking God.

She'd made it to her gate by the skin of her teeth, with only twenty minutes to spare before boarding call. Sighing heavily, Eshe smiled. God, traffic had been a nightmare and harass her older sister Lana over a ride to the airport for her late evening flight which had resulted in a lot of sisterly bickering and countless threats of 'You Owe Me Big'.

She'd had to practically beg her way through check-in and even flirt with a cute guy in the security line up to let her cut ahead.

Setting down her carry-on on an available seat near the terminal walkway, utterly exhausted, Eshe sat down and stretched her long legs. As a chronic white-knuckle flyer, she'd dressed in skinny jeans cuffed at the ankles, cobalt ballerina flats and an oversized sweater.

The entire ensemble fresh and comfortable for the hellish flight she had ahead of her but still put together enough that if Ian Somerhalder happened to strut by with his gorgeous (and regrettably married self), she wouldn't have to dive behind the row of seating in shame.

Reaching into her purse, Eshe plucked out a small lip gloss sized jar of organic shea butter and scraped out the barest amount of the cream coloured waxen substance with the back of her nail. A little went a long way and she only got her hands on it twice a year when her mom made the trip back to her small village in Somali.

She worked it into her palms, the backs and down her slender fingers. As the butter warmed in her hands it spread, leaving her skin soft and fragrant. Capping the small jar, she tucked it away in her purse. Unlike what she would find in local store shelves in London, this was pure, raw and unrefined. More precious than gold for a woman of colour.

Sliding in her ear buds, Eshe scrolled through her music and settled on a Kings of Leon track while she scrolled through her notification on Twitter when a tickle skimmed the side of her shoulder. Whisper light and fleeting. She'd blown her length of dark hair straight the night before so it skimmed the below the center point of her waist and planned to loosely braid once boarded.

Figuring the sensation was a result of her long dark hair shifting as she'd settled into her seat, she'd only just brushed it aside without much further inference, when it happened again.

No, no she'd felt that this time. Someone was touching her.

Twisting in her seat, Eshe came face to face with the guilty party. A middle-aged black woman with flame red hair and a lot of gold, necklaces, earrings, rings and bracelets—enough to open her own jewelry counter. Contouring brought out the curves of her cheekbones, tapered her nose and the edges of her hairline were slicked in place with professional flare.

Eshe slipped her ear buds out and smiled. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

"That's alright." Elbow propped on the backrest, she set her chin on her fist. "Are you from London?" she asked, her wide smile full and friendly. But a knot of unease coiled in Eshe's belly all the same. Talking to strangers always had this effect. Talking to strange women especially.

"I am. Just heading out to visit a girl friend that needs a bit of cheering up."

"Brilliant," the woman settled closer, eyes gleaming, "so then you can tell me your secret. I was just admiring your hair, earlier. It's beautiful. Remy? Virgin hair, right?"

Not this again. Her gaze flickered to the boarding gate and though the stewardesses appeared moving and in preparation, the plane had not yet taxied to the gate. Stomach clenching, "No."