Since I was a child, I’ve watched the girls and women on the buses and the trams, fixing them with my gaze and sucking in the way they look, their smiles, the nervous way they move their hands, their skirts’ dancing pleats. There were so many of them—and they were so beautiful and so colourful—that I pitied the husbands hanging there mute and distracted from the strap above their heads, buried in their grey and blue suits. But my eyes didn’t dwell on them—their mystery could wait till later—and quickly returned to their wives. I would fall silent again as they spoke, moving closer until, standing beside them, I could eavesdrop on what they had to say. As though I knew the day would come when I would try to speak in their name. So here you have it, girls: your stories.
I grew up and kept the promises I never made to you; the promises I wrote down instead.
Seven short stories, female and singular but desperately struggling for plurality. Seven girls who never grew into the women of their dreams.