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update from sparkleup

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Madison Scott-Clary 2024-02-16 11:25:05 -08:00
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writing/post-self/idumea/002.md
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@ -6,6 +6,19 @@ Either way, she was feeling good and she was feeling stable and she was feeling
She found herself a nice shirt that felt good on the fur and which would not look too weird if she poofed out into a skunk. It was not her favorite shirt, I am sure, otherwise maybe she would wear it every day, but it was good enough. It had the word 'fiend' scribbled across it in angular, glitchy graffiti, and The Woman is absolutely allowed to feel like a fiend some days.
Thus clothed, The Woman stands for a while in front of the mirror and admires herself. She feels good. She feels good, reader! It is not often that she feels more than just okay. Because even with all that I wrote about before, her life is not bad. It is an okay life. She likes this life in her own way. Her thoughts on unbecoming are not thoughts on suicide, I do not think.
She stands before the mirror and preens for a moment, adjusting the way her shirt sits and fluffing out her slacks to see how they might fit with a thicker coat. She combs her claws through her short fur to straighten out some mussed-up spots and ensures that her whiskers are all neat and in those rows that cats have that she always found fascinating.
The trip to the city is as it ever is. She says to herself a little prayer and opens the door to her closet. Taking a deep breath, she steps through, and as she does so, she brushes her fingertips against the jamb as ever, and today it feels right enough that she steps lively out onto the city streets, out where the leaves skitter anxiously around her footpaws in the faint February breeze.
Stuffing her paws into her pockets, she makes her way down the street where her entrance is located to the main drag.
The city is on the small end — more large town than full on city — and so it is still the type of place to have a main drag, a street built for cars that it does not actually, with wide sidewalks paved in brick and a trolley that runs down the middle.
The Woman waits for the next trolley car to come and steps aboard, tucking her tail down and around her leg as she holds onto one of the railings — she never sits, and never could tell you why — to ride it for three stops. This is part of the ritual. Even when the car is busy and she is not feeling so good, there is a part of her that is happy that she gets to stand on this trolley and hold onto the railing and feel the rattle and buzz of the wheels rolling along the track through her feet or paws. It is not even particularly pleasant for her, I think, but it *is* fulfilling.
She makes it her three stops and steps easily from the trolley to find herself before her
(a visit to a coffee shop)
(Friend is having a bad day b/c ???)