The Defining Line

2: Bite Your Tongue

*.*.*.* One Week Earlier *.*.*.*

We create our own instruments and sing our own songs. Although English is the prominent language which we all understand, we tend to speak one of our own, it's tradition. And we are people of tradition; proud people too I may add.

The market place thrives this time of day, around the time when shadows begin to grow along the ground and the Lilian flowers which prefer to face the sun, loose direction of where to look. The Market is shaped as a large circle all aisles leading to the open centre where a fire pit thrives snapping and releasing smoke which makes my eyes tear the slightest. Lanterns lined with red paper along the jagged wooden beams which hold the market together, signify the beginning of the new season. 'Säsongen av Född' we call it, or 'Season of Birth'. Although, now that I think about it, its falsely named because the only tradition of today is to find a mate, pick a date, marry, and attend every other marriage within your family.

The sound of common chatter and debating surrounds me as all I can do is stay still, hold my posture, and look like something every man would want.

I stand upon my pedestal like the other girls my age all posing in the same position. One hand is curved above my head and the other curved behind my lower back. My frilly shirt sits lower on my chest than most would be comfortable with, I have to look desirable.

Everyone can identify this posture as "looking for a mate" but to me, it feels more like "hungry".

I am of age now to start my own family, my mother has been trying to sell me off since I was a hundred and forty four moons old. Now I am the bitter age of 198 moons, I am well beyond my time, in her eyes anyway.

Many of the women here are older than I am, and they still get chosen by lovely men who will soon become their husbands and start a family. Where the women stay home and cook an lead a very pleasant life for themselves.

Many fair men pass me of all classes, I prefer the ones who wear orange, colour signified class and I know if I marry within my class I will do well for myself. A part of me however also looks for men in green, they are a class higher than myself but equally something I could achieve.

Through the distant pinegreen doors and smokey room I see two men burst through the frame shouting and laughing.

No one thinks twice if a man makes a scene. But god forbid a woman blinks the wrong way, she could be shamed for life.

"I have every opportunity in my fingertips!" The first man brags opening his arms to the women in the room. He wears a tight blue shirt which signified first class, and he holds a drink in his hand, judging by his actions, there is a percentage of alcohol within it's contense.

"Don't choose some poor dwarf, what about money? The bank isn't an endless pit Ove." His partner answers back, clearly more sober.

"Unless you're me of course!"

The boys direct themselves down the long rows of ladies skipping over the women who wear orange and brown. Orange signifies a middle to lower class to say politely. I wear orange, perhaps (and I hope to god) they will pass me like all the other women who don't seem to phase them at all.

"I can live my life care free of such problems! I could practically pick a partner with my eyes shut and still leave successful after a years time." the first one snickers sipping his drink.

"Could you now?" His friend laughs and pulls off his green tie covering his eyes. "Prove it then!" He pulls the drink out of Ove's fingertips and pushes him down a row of women.

"How will I choose without any eyes? Shall I touch?" He reaches out to a woman placing his hands upon her breasts. She slaps his face shocking him and I cannot help but to giggle to myself.