Girls Like Me | Christy Hartman
Girls like me cling to youth. Our hands claw at hyaluronic acid life preservers, as our sea-glass husbands tumble gently into middle-age. We hide our post-partum bodies behind Lexapro and filtered Instagram posts. It will be our turn again someday.
Girls like me can shred your self-esteem with a lingering look in the Costco line. We narrow our eyes at the grease stains on your stretch denim, then at your straining button fly. We conjure a tiny smirk at the corner of our plump lips — you suck in your stomach and pull at your oversized shirt.
Girls like me pick at our salads while our boyfriends tear at their rare sirloin like Vikings celebrating their latest plunder. No need to ask if we want dessert. We marry handsome men who proposition us with two-carat rings while they ogle the waitress’s ass. Your table of espresso martinis watches us with green-eyes and knowing glances.
Girls like me are toughened by mothers. Mothers who pinch rolls of skin tumbling over our ballet skirts and bra straps, clicking their tongues like scissors snipping at our loose threads. Girls like me twirl in new dresses before fathers who look through our glass bodies at Monday night touchdowns.
Girls like me are babies with wild ringlets and rosy cheeks. She’s so pretty. What an angel. A perfect doll. Passed from arms to arms, girls like me reach for bright lights and vibrant colours, finding beauty in everything.
Girls like me were prayed for. Girls like me were wanted. Girls like me were loved.
about the author:
Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home between the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island, Canada. She writes about picking out the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments. Christy has been shortlisted for Bath and Bridport Flash Fiction prizes and is a two-time New York City Midnight winner. She has been published by Sky Island Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, Sunlight Press, and others.