dreaminghope (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dreaminghope) wrote2007-07-29 05:43 pm
dreaminghope) wrote2007-07-29 05:43 pm
Entry tags:
A little perspective
Not too hot; not too cold. A pretty perfect Vancouver day, really. But it's a Monday; seeing the sun through an office window or warehouse door does put a damper on its beauty. The mood seems drab even if the weather isn't.
"Do you have any fruit?" comes a call from the gate across the front of our warehouse. It's a pretty routine request. The neighbourhood women know that if they come by in the morning, while the warehouse manager still has all the produce out, they'll get an apple or banana.
There are a number of different women who come by; they are all addict-thin and tottering on heels. They all walk the same way: like a poorly-controlled marionette, with arms and legs that move as if they aren't quite connected to the body.
The woman at the gate holds on by one hand and swings, loose-limbed. She is so thin that she looks pre-pubescent; her hip bones are visible above her skirt's low waist and her ribs are visible below her midriff shirt. Her face ages her.
The warehouse manager, The Brit, grabs an apple and heads to the gate.
"How are you doing?" he asks her.
"Can't complain," she says cheerily, "Thanks!"
He watches her trot away, munching her apple, back to her corner.
"'Can't complain'," he shakes his head.
"Do you have any fruit?" comes a call from the gate across the front of our warehouse. It's a pretty routine request. The neighbourhood women know that if they come by in the morning, while the warehouse manager still has all the produce out, they'll get an apple or banana.
There are a number of different women who come by; they are all addict-thin and tottering on heels. They all walk the same way: like a poorly-controlled marionette, with arms and legs that move as if they aren't quite connected to the body.
The woman at the gate holds on by one hand and swings, loose-limbed. She is so thin that she looks pre-pubescent; her hip bones are visible above her skirt's low waist and her ribs are visible below her midriff shirt. Her face ages her.
The warehouse manager, The Brit, grabs an apple and heads to the gate.
"How are you doing?" he asks her.
"Can't complain," she says cheerily, "Thanks!"
He watches her trot away, munching her apple, back to her corner.
"'Can't complain'," he shakes his head.
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