Musings of a Forgotten Woman
She shook out her hair. Gone was the rain strait golden locks she forced on herself. For the first time in a long time, she looked at her real self. The red tinted naturally wavy locks were the ones she'd been born with. She'd forced herself into platinum servitude with one goal in mind, to capture the dark eyed brunette coworker that haunted her dreams. She'd failed, failed miserably. Now, she was alone, staring at herself. It was impossible not to compare herself to the natural blonde she'd lost to. She'd been outclassed from the start. Intelligence, grace and a pedigree longer then the constitution itself wrapped up in a blonde haired blue eyed package. When she'd seen them together, it had physically hurt like a punch to the gut or a knife to the chest. She'd held herself steady, though. She'd fallen back on the cool exterior that she was so well known for. On the inside, she shattered like cheap glass.
She'd lusted after shapely legs; dreamed of short silky dark hair and fallen for sad brown eyes. She'd lost her broody goddess to another. If, if, if, ran through her head. If she'd been a better friend, if she'd been kinder, if she had worked harder, if she'd made her intentions clear, if she had confessed it all and thrown herself at her love's mercy. She hadn't. She'd lost and could do nothing now. Her buetey was happy, she could not...would not begrudge her that. The smile that had graced her face had lit up the room, her laugh echoed in the halls, but not for her. Never for her.
Now she pulled on too tight pants, too small a top and too much makeup. Tonight she would go out and find a brunette dopleganger to fill her bed. It would ease the pain of loss. It was a one night stand that turned into a desperate string of one night stands. They were all so much like her lost love, but not. They were never the same. She was going insane, trying to replace her. It was all for naught, because each time blessed release came, she saw only her, heard only her and always cried for her.
Some didn't ask, didn't want to know. Others were spited, pissed at the mistake. Some offered pity or advice. They were all kicked out before the sunrise. She was stuck in a viscous cycle of need and pain. Every time she kicked the newest stand-in out of bed, she stumbled to the bathroom to purge. She purged the enormous amount of liquor she'd imbibed, she purged the shame of cheap sex she'd taken. No matter how long she prayed to the porcelain god, though, she could never purge the burn of unrequited love. It burned too deep, too strong and too hot to be controlled or put out.
She worked too hard. Whispers about obsession and fatigue followed her heel clicks down the hall. Concerned eyes followed her; brown eyes of a friend who would never be anything more. Every time she got out of bed to dress for work another chink came out of her rusty armor, another fray in the mask she wore every day. Then the blue eyes burned her, warning her off of claimed territory. She couldn't handle the stares anymore. She shook her hair and resigned herself to pain. She was a woman forgotten and that was her own fault.