Cursing at Murals | a short story ✔

Short Story

Yvette ran her hands through her hair. It was dark around her. And cold. And she was pretty sure the man in the mural across the street just winked at her. She had not needed that last shot of tequila. Screw Milo for messing up her night out. How was it fair that she got kicked out of the nightclub when Milo was the one accidentally falling and groping every woman he passed. He really shouldn't have been surprised when she accidentally dented his face in after he accidentally pulled down her top. Fuck little boys with big connections. She knew she was stomping. It felt good. She didn't feel like walking lightly upon the earth tonight, she felt like cracking the earth asunder.

Yvette crossed the street and shoved her finger into the chest of the man painted on the brick wall. "Who do you think you're winking at, mister? I'm not an object, I'm a person with feelings which is more than anyone can say about you, huh?" She knew she was yelling at a wall, and yeah okay, it was not her finest moment, but she didn't care. It felt good. It felt good to insult a face that couldn't argue, fight back, or walk away. He just had to stand there, in the stupid pose he was painted in, and take it.

"You're so smug. You're one of those Olympic athletes that won a medal right? What are you? A swimmer? A runner? Well, you're not better than the rest of us just because you're fast!"

She slammed her palm against the wall by his head as if to emphasize her point. The young athlete's eyes stared back at her. His eyes spoke of hardship, dedication, and triumph.

Yvette lowered her own. She didn't understand the hard work or commitment that drove these individuals to success.

Frowning, she asked, "Why do you try so hard?"

She stepped back to look at the lifesize rendering all at once. The artist had done a good job depicting how strong this man was even through the warm-ups he had on. The jacket was snug around his shoulder and biceps. The pants stretched a bit at the thighs before hanging loose around the rest of his legs. Having tried and failed many workout routines in her past, the level of dedication required to shape a body into this specimen felt alien to her.

"Why put the blood, sweat, and tears into something that others will just tear down and tell you isn't good enough? I mean you look smoking hot and all, but how many matches did you lose getting to this point?"

Yvette leaned against one of the trees planted in the sidewalk. She laid her head back against the trunk, looked up between the branches, and swallowed hard.

"Does your heart feel like it's tearing into pieces when you lose?"

She closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath.

"Does your throat constrict so violently that you're afraid you may never speak again?"

She let the silence stretch between them. Her thoughts meandered back to grade school P.E. classes and races she never took seriously. She'd been asked to pair up for some exercise and she watched as all her close friends grabbed a partner. She remembered the exact moment when she realized that none of her friends had chosen her. Her shoulders had curled in on herself and her arms wrapped around her midsection. Her breaths had become short and started to shake with each exhale. She had squeezed her eyes shut tight trying to keep the traitorous liquid at bay, but it was no use, the floodgates had opened and her runny nose betrayed her as well. She'd buried her face in her hands and ran to the bathroom.

"Have you ever felt the pain of rejection?"

She opened her eyes and realized she'd slid down to sit on the ground still propped up by the tree. She looked up at the young man grinning at her as if to hide the unease he felt at her question.