Annie Stepford-Jones appeared and disappeared unnoticed. Her presence in the world was very small. Her skin was so pale it seemed even sunshine failed to notice her. She spoke always as if she was trying out the words, practicing what to say rather than really saying anything. If other women noticed her at all they commented on the dreary colors she wore and the shapeless clothes that looked deliberately old-fashioned. People who were sympathetic to her (she didn't have friends exactly) described her as "shy". She was married to Charlie, a hollow man; he was large and loud.
Everything about Charlie annoyed me. Sitting on his deck drinking his beer listening to his boastful stories annoyed me. My best mate, Donald, was an old school friend of Charlie's and Donald was loyal in his friendships. It was during one of Charlie's endless stories that my attention turned away from his endlessly moving mouth framed in a neatly trimmed beard and looked for the first time at his wife.
Now, like most guys I amuse myself in queues at airports and grocery stores by deciding who around me is worth fucking and deciding which of the candidates I would most like to screw. It passes the time and makes the looking more fun. Annie's blankness would have made her invisible at the airport, but here on the deck on this hot afternoon she was the only candidate.
There were two moles on the side of her neck that looked like bite marks from a child vampire. Her head was leaning to one side in a pose of listening to her husband and so the muscles of her neck made her vampire bites more prominent. Her hair was gathered up into a severe bun that seemed to stretch the skin on her scalp. She wore no make-up. There was the suggestion of freckles on her cheeks. She was sitting on the edge of the white plastic chair as if ready to jump up at her husband's command. She leaned forward so that her shoulders squeezed her torso and this gave the impression of her trying to squeeze her body into the world. She was neither short nor tall. Her knees poking hesitatingly out from beneath the blue dress that wrapped her up like a hastily offered Christmas gift were bony white with a splash of tiny red scars. These were the traces of childhood accidents; perhaps a fall from a bike, maybe a push from a schoolyard bully. Her legs rested on feet elevated by her toes so she seemed ready to start a sprint race. She wore brown leather sandals which made her feet the most exposed and naked part of her except her neck and face.
I returned to her face to inspect her mouth (does she give Charlie head?) and found her eyes staring at me. At first I was taken aback, momentarily ashamed. But I held her gaze investigating her eyes. They were green with flecks of what seemed like white or silver. Her eye lashes protruded like corn stalks. It was clear to me that her eyebrows would have met above her nose if she had allowed nature to have its way. This was the first sign a vanity. She plucked her eyebrows. Her forehead was unwrinkled. I wondered whether this was because she didn't have worries or whether her worries wrinkled some other part of her body. Her lips were thin as if they had been added late and just pressed into place with little care and attention. I recalled that she was a vegetarian. It seemed to me that this opening to the world was one she regretted having.
