Pamela Smith

piled them high on the chair before climbing up and perching precariously at the top of the heap, facing the mirror. She placed her heels on the seat and leaned forward on her elbows, imitating as closely as possible her position on the stool at work. She pictured the wooden sides of her stall: no, they wouldn’t have come up as high as her knees. She began moving her lips silently, recalling snippets of their conversation. She began to relax her posture slightly and gesture occasionally, the way she remembered doing… …And watched, half-fascinated, half-horrified, as her knees began drifting apart, giving a clear view up her skirt and exposing her panties to anyone who cared to look… Like Jack. She buried her face in her hands. She waited for the tears to come, the tears that would