Me. Standing on pavement peppered with plastic. Alone. Waiting. Surrounded by man-manipulated metal. 

Unsure of the direction. No compass rose. Eyes wide. Standing before a construction site. Work in progress. 

Lovers brush by. Hands held. Lips pursed. A man strides past. Briefcase: shined. Shoes: shined. Forehead: shiny. The wind whips around buildings. It beats me. 

A herd of men appear. Talking loud. One man pauses. His right finger in his left nostril. 

He looks at my shoes. Sees through them. Pays attention to the dry patch on my heel. My freshly cut toenails. Knows I cannot run fast. Works his way up my legs. Notes the one spot I forgot to shave. Back of right knee. Keeps going. 

There are stretch marks on my hips. My belly button is cavernous. My stomach bloats. Beneath three layers, there’s a scar on my chest. My neck curves. My jaw juts. My hair hangs. Makes his way to my eyes. Waits.

I want to look. Stare at his psyche. Condemn his perversion. Rip that finger from his nose and point it at his third eye. I’m desperate to show him the color of my soul. 

Instead, I freeze. Stare straight ahead. There’s a steakhouse there. I’m the steak. 

He keeps going. Though he knows my body as I do. They hang right. He is gone. 

Others pass. They see something. But they don’t see me. 

Work in progress. 

When Anna Gragert isn’t trying to create a groundbreaking third-person bio for herself, she’s writing for publications like My Modern Met and HelloGiggles, catering to her little black cat, reading fiction for Cactus Heart Press, or wondering if/when she should become a shaman. Check out Anna's portfolio or follow her on Twitter to keep up with her adventures in all things human/creative.