Wallflower Girl (Chapter 3, page 2 of 5)


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She pushed open the wooden screen door, sending a bell mounted on the doorframe into a frenzy. Even the sound of that particular bell had a familiar pitch as it resounded around the small, gravy and beef smelling room.

Two drivers looked up from their meals. Both glanced at her scarred leg. Damn it, she'd forgotten to pull her shorts lower when she'd climbed out of the car. She was going to wear a dress to the wedding and hoped it wouldn't be too hot for stockings. The scarring wasn't as starkly noticeable beneath dark hose. There was sympathy in the smiles of the two truckers.

Whatever! Oh to be simply ogled by a gruff, big bellied truck driver even! Such thoughts wouldn't normally crack Anne's crusty, well-seasoned defences, but this stupid wedding had her in need of male attention like nothing she could remember.

"Help you with something, dear?" The question had come from a worn looking middle-aged woman with dark sacks under her eyes.

Anne chose a bottle of mineral water from a glass display fridge and paid for it. The counter was cluttered with gum stands and magazines. The small portion that was available to transact business had a brown speckled laminate surface worn white in the middle. Brushing the surface with her fingers caused another shiver of familiarity to caress Anne's being. It was like some rolling sequence of déjà vu just going on and on. In spite of the predominance of warmth and wellbeing, she was beginning to feel a little freaked out.

She hurried back to her car with as much haste as her cranky leg would allow, tossing her purse on the seat beside her and driving quickly on her way.

When arriving at the motel a little later, she found her room to be newly appointed, crisp and without any semblance of other worldly charm or calling. Anne dumped her suitcase and pulled on some slacks and a cute lace top. She paused on her way back out the door and checked in a mirror on the wall. They were having a meal and drinks at a bar of some sort; she and her fixed-up girlfriends.

Why not make an effort, mousy mouse? She flipped open her suitcase and pulled out the makeup kit her aunt had no doubt bought as a hint, then set to work. Thankfully a little page of instructions had been included. Primer over the entire lid. White highlight under the brow and in the tear duct area, light violet over the lid, and a thick smudge of indigo along the lash line. There was a purple pencil included and she drew a series of short dashes along her upper and lower lash line. It took several tries to remove the cellophane from the tube of mascara, and even longer to paint her eyelashes without clumps and without leaving little spidery lines all over her careful work.

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