Every Woman Knows This by Laurel Hightower

Author:Laurel Hightower [Hightower, Laurel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Death Knell Press

One of Those Faces

T

oday I am Sandy. I smooth the sleeves of the too-tight sweater she brought me, purse my lips at the way her jeans pinch at my hips, the uncomfortable spill of muffin top. I’m not shaped like her at all, and the effect of wearing her clothes is incongruous and lumpy. He won’t see that—I don’t know why, but they never do. Maybe all they notice is my face, or maybe the impression all blends together and they see what they want to. I look in the mirror and see only myself, which is what I want to see. Just me, in my own clothes that fit my body and personality, but Sandy’s already transferred the first payment to my account, and I don’t want to have to refund it. So for today, I’ll be her, take care of her problem and we can go our separate ways.

I pull up the Notes app on my phone, open the one with her name. There’s a list of attributes, points of interest, and observations I made about how she moves and talks. I roll my neck, shake my hands out and practice: the way her left shoulder is always higher than her right, a flinch that never ends. The way she chews her bottom lip until it’s bloody, and how she blinks too long when she gets anxious. I work at it until I get her quirks in sync, then I consult the schedule she gave me. French class ends at 10:45am, then a quick walk to grab a black coffee at the student cafe in the library. That’s where he’ll be, looking for her like he does every day. She’s tried hiding, changing her routine, even transferring classes, but he always finds her.

Today, he’ll find me.

I draw little notice when I reach campus, take the long walk from the big parking lot instead of waiting for the bus. Same as I did when I was a student here. Old habits die hard, and I didn’t think to ask for Sandy’s routine in that aspect, but I doubt it matters. If all the other differences don’t make it obvious that we’re not interchangeable, nothing will.

Every so often a woman meets my eye, gives the slightest nod and moves past without stopping. I don’t acknowledge them, but I notice. I’ve been here a number of times since I figured out my particular calling—college campuses are ripe for the work I do. I don’t know if it’s good or bad that I get recognized now—the point in what I do is anonymity, and I don’t know if being seen as myself too often will break the spell, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve been blending into the scenery my whole life, and it’s disconcerting when gazes stop on me instead of sliding past. Years ago, as a teenager, I’d have given anything to be noticed. But I’ll age out of places like this before long and it won’t matter anyway.

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