photo by Constantin Jurcut
At first, I barely notice the beige lump that’s heading my way, and then I realise… it’s me, reflected in the mirrored cladding of an office block. I admit I’ve never been willowy, but the woman walking towards me is positively squat. It’s the type of glass they use, I tell myself, wishing it was true. Geoffrey says I’m cuddly, making me sound softly rounded and desirable, but that’s not what comes to my mind right now. I look square and solid. A word my grandmother would use jumps into my head. Stout.
by Linda McVeigh
winner of the 2010 Asham Short Story Award
With thanks to Asham for allowing us to republish this story.
© Linda McVeigh.