You’re isolated now, completely on your own; scarcely visible to anyone or anything.
You look in the mirror each morning. They say what you see depends on your expectations, and although yours are pretty low, the reflection still falls unremittingly, depressingly short.
It’s no longer a crime against humanity to leave home without your bra, and you’re unlikely to scare the horses if you forget your eyeliner. The world won’t end because you didn’t comb your hair, or apply a slash of lipstick.
Because you go unnoticed everywhere.
And that’s good, you think, examining your haul after today’s leisurely stroll through Harrods. Excellent, in fact.
Late to the party again. Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the genial Rochelle, opens up for business again today. 100 words or thereabouts. Go on, it won’t kill you!