Decompression

I wore my red dress today, the one that usually makes me invincible. Armour is necessary when you have a five and a half hour uninterrupted meeting scheduled. The red dress didn’t work. Ten other people in the room. The one I usually giggle with was on his best behaviour. It was possibly for the best, though. When the fancy pants woman with the thumbnail chewing habit (I wanted to take that thumb and shove it in her eye) decided the things she’d seen and desired online were too big and industrial in reality, I wanted to laugh, I wanted to scream, I wanted to shout, “Who’s this c**t?” Instead I walked a small but significant distance up the room and smirked behind my hair. I photographed the machines she did not like. Beauty can be found in coils of copper and curves of cast iron, and in the mind of a fourteen year old boy who wanted to change the world, so built a machine to do it. Later, when fancy pants and the rest had gone back whence they came, I felt flattened, pinched, compressed. I need a decompression chamber more than I need a red dress.

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