Free A Fine Profession (The Chambermaid's Tales Part One) by Sarah Michelle Lynch Page B

the woman's fault. It was the world's fault. It was fashion's fault for favouring the slimmer figure and not catering to small, curvy girls like me. Girls who were a certain size up top and another down below, and for whom, dresses rarely fit properly and would not unless custom-fit, or couture, I heard it once called. It was terrible.
    “Nothing in here will suit me!” I shouted angrily, turned and went. I was sick with myself, really, but I just wanted to be left alone. I wondered why those people had to bother others who just needed to have their own space and find their own clothes, in an environment they felt comfortable with.
    I almost did run away . I made it to the escalators and started making my descent. Alex saw me and caught up.
    “ Hey, did you find anything?” he asked.
    He and I had never once fought, up until then. Not really.
    “I am not best pleased, Alex. Why did you force me into this?”
    “I didn't,” he protested.
    As always, we knew the issue, but we never spoke of it.
    “You are trying to prove a point,” I spitted.
    “ Yeah, perhaps I am. But never maliciously.”
    “ You don't understand.”
    “Oh, but, I really do. I do,” he tried to assure me.
    “ Alex, today… all this shopping, has only made me feel bad. It has only… I haven't enjoyed it, okay?”
    “ You're avoiding yourself, life, love, everything…!” he protested. I was incandescent with rage. He was unperturbed, continuing, “You seem to treat everyone else like a lesser mortal. You're offish, unapproachable, untouchable. I know different. I know you. I know why you're like that!”
    I flushed purple probably, with anger and resentment.
    “Don't judge me. You know, I have never judged you and your inability to be honest about who you are!”
    We had traversed two escalators and were on the last.
    “ Listen Char, okay? Please. Maybe I hope I can save you from the same fate as me.”
    He tried to squeeze my shoulder in a loving, affectionate, understanding gesture, but I shrugged it off.
    “This has caused me pain,” I muttered, glancing back at him with a scowl. I could feel my teeth chattering, my lips trembling and my eyes stinging. I was going to draw attention to myself in the worst manner possible and break down right there.
    “ Char, you are really beautiful, you are. Even in your scruffs you knock spots off most women! I promise you are lovely, please believe me! I love you. I do. You are gorgeous, inside and out. I only want you to see that. I thought I was helping to snap you out of this!”
    We reached the bottom and I turned on him. I pointed at him, tears rolling down my cheeks, telling him, “You don't know Alex, you don't know!”
    “I do,” he said softly.
    He stood so solidly in front of me, almost gloatingly, I perceived. He did not swerve or falter at my exclamations. I decided he was actually an unkind, unloving bastard who really had no clue who I really was. I slapped him. There was nothing else I could possibly do. If it were a romantic connection between us, he might have tried to win me over with a kiss. But we were better than that, more, and knew only too well how our more earthly, platonic bond had become so vital. That he was now trying to edge his way into the monogamous realms of changing me ‒ goading me toward overcoming all the protective barriers I had set up with one fell swoop – was totally unreasonable and exacting in my mind. It was calculating and uncalled for. It was unbearable to think that someone who was supposed to be my comfort was now my enemy, my challenger, my judge and executioner. He had not thought how this would set me back. I was not like him. For me, my level of exactness was well-hidden and closeted. He did not know how many layers there were to peel away and how my essence was shrouded by so many protective cushions.
    He stepped back, unemotional, and walked away. I was left there alone. In one last act of persecution, I was curtly told the store was