Another day, another duty.

It wasn't so much that her day seemed to be filled with chores after chores, it was that this was all she had until the day she died, or the day she married.

This day, it was particularly hot, particularly humid, and she had had about enough shoveling straw in the stables to last her a lifetime.

Her dark denim pants were stained with mud. Her shirt dripped with sweat. That morning, she had wrapped her long brain around her head like a crown to keep it off her neck, but tendrils had begun to fall and clung to her skin with moisture.

She looked at her tanned hands, the calluses proof of the work she had done, even in her childhood, and shook her head. She was tired. Tired of it all. What being here had done to her physically and emotionally.

Nearly done with her work for the morning, she pressed on. Shoveling. Shoveling. Shoveling. Practice for her own grave, maybe, she thought.

The sun was nearly blinding as she walked out of the stables, up the long path, through the garden of cana lilies, to the enormous brick home. She stopped before the door and chucked her muck coated rubber boots aside before going in.

She caught herself looking at her hand again as it gripped the door handle. Why had she bothered with polishing her nails if they were just going to end up like this every damn day. Chipped and jagged and filthy. She left a muddy print on the door as she pushed it open.

The washing room was a staircase away on the second floor of the silent house. She took the steps up slowly. There was no need to rush. The only thing that waited for her was more of the same. Chores. Chores that someone else had deemed her responsibility. Chores she had been doing everyday since she was big enough.

She left another dirty handprint on the washroom door as she pushed it open.

She saw herself. Her face was dirty too. Her eyes were dark. She lowered them and watched the water rush down her hands, turning brown and draining away. She picked at her nails, clipped away the jagged bits. She unwove the long braid twisted atop her head. Ran a brush down the length of her hair, made the plait again and rewrapped her crown. Every hair in place, where it should be.

********

“We thank the Gods, for this meal and for the hands that prepared it. Blessed be the food to the nourishment of our bodies. Amen.” Amok’s prayer was gentle, a variation of the one he prayed at every meal.

Alexandra moved to fill her plate. A brother on either side of her at the table. She was the youngest and had learned early that she would have to move fast if she wanted to eat. She admired her clean hands as she scooped salad greens.

“This afternoon,” she began, “I’d like one of you to help me finish what's left of my chores. I’d like to be done a bit early. I have…,” she paused, “plans.”

“Oh, do you now?” Arne asked with raised eyebrows and half smile on her beatiful face.

“I have a date.”

Callixus, the brother to the left, nearly choked. Galene, the brother on her right bit back a laugh and said, “With who? Not August Hawthorn again?”

The date wasn’t with August Hawthorn. Though she had thoroughly enjoyed his company when they had been out together nearly two months ago. He was nice and he had a grin that was as bright as the stars. She had, however, been forbidden from seeing him again because he was of the Saintshood religion. Unequally yoked her parents had said. And that was that.

When he had called her for a second date, she gently turned him down and assured him this was also for his best. That he would be wasting his time with her. That he should be seeking someone who shared the same beliefs.

Her parents were not entirely wrong. She did want to end up with someone who agreed with her on the things that were important. She wanted to be with someone who would read the story of the savior's birth to their children out of the ancient holy text she held in reverence. She wanted someone who believed like she did, like her parents, like her family.

“No, not August. We’ve already been through this. He’s of the Staintshood. It would never work out.”

“Then who,” Arne asked, her smile growing with the question.

“His name is Mortain Wadefield. He lives over in Marion. He’s been working at the quarry. We matched at the town mingle.” She wasn’t nervous about telling them, her brothers and her parents, and her voice was steady.

“I’d be happy to help you with whatever work you have left today. Anything to get married off,” Callixus said through a laugh.

She elbowed his ribs and said, “You want me out of the house that badly?”

“Well, you two have fun. Arne, did you make us a pie for dessert?”

“Are you trying to change the subject?” Alexandra held Amok’s eyes and he chuckled.

“I’ll become interested in knowing more about him if this goes anywhere, but I doubt it will.”

“Why? Am I so undesirable?” She lifted a hand to her brow in a mock fainting motion.

The teasing her family was giving her was just that teasing. It was lighthearted. She had never dated anyone seriously, only one or two dates with a guy before she, but usually he, found some reason not to see the other again.

“Yes.” the brother to her left chimed in, “Now about that pie.”

There he went. Walking across the street. Fat tummy jiggling under his loose shirt.

And there I sat. At the red light. Foot on the break.

I don't know if it was something about his long frizzy ponytail. Or something about the way he jiggled, but something told me to do it. So, I did it. Ever so slowly. I lifted my foot and inched forward. Just a little. Then I slammed on the gas. Rammed right into him. The thud of the man with such a large body habitus made against my car was astronomical. And the way that tummy jiggled as he flopped onto the windshield was something ungodly.

Then I snapped back into myself and told the intrusive thought to be damned.

Imagine the early 2000s. Low-rise jeans, whale tails, and sperm eyebrows. I was only eight years old and was being watched at a friend's house while my parents were-- well, I don't know, somewhere away from me.

My friend's older sister was in her 20s and decided my eyebrows were too bushy. Too big for my tiny, little eight-year-old face. So, you know what that bitch did? She plucked my eyebrows. Thankfully she did not deem me a good candidate for the sperm brow. But, she changed my appearance enough that even my dad noticed. "What happened to your face!?" he asked when I arrived home. Well, while I was out an unhinged young adult unleashed a pair of tweezer on me.

I guess she did fine. I've been plucking my eyebrows in the same shape decided on by my friend's twenty-something-year-old sister for the past twenty one years.

There was no breast from which to suckle

There was no hand to pat my back

There was no counting during hide-and-seek

Of playdates and parties I did not speak

There was no aisle to walk down

No hand for me to hold

At breakfast and at super

My heart grew hard and cold

In daylight and in darkness

My own breath sounds filled my ears

At twilight and at sunset

At the solitude I cursed

And when the end of life drew near

Reflection my only goal

I looked in the rearview mirror

Dark and Empty met my eyes

Relationships I had not known

I had wasted all my time

When at the pearly gates I stood

I knocked but no one answered

The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost

Were nowhere to be found

Through eternity I would venture

Unescorted in the clouds