Skip to content

The Watched

This piece was written recently, during the Unspoken Ink Fall Session, by the wonderful, Amy.

I can feel them watching me, the bald one with the drawn eyes. Their glances start at my head, flicker to the uneven breasts. And then they turn away. Well, most of them do. Except for that night at the restaurant with my mother.

Hot and tired, I had taken off my scarf. My mother shook her head, gestured to the people around us as if to say: Put that back on. Stop making everyone uncomfortable.

An older woman came over to us then, smiling at my little girl. “It’s been twelve years,” she said. “And you look great.”