Undeserving

Despite months of anticipation, the woman was still ill-prepared. Dozens of explanations scribbled in rushed handwriting produced by impossibly shaky, quaking hands only to be crumpled in those same delicate alabaster palms had all failed to ready Ally. She still found herself in a state of wide-eyed, pale-faced, clammy-handed disbelief when those four life-altering words, those fourteen letters were introduced into the equation: will you marry me?

Even though the anticipation of the impending question had been deep-set in her very soul for days, weeks, months, instilling tension in every gym-manufactured muscle and a whirlwind of worry-mingled-anxiety to her time-wearied mind, Ally had been in a state of something akin to denial. That denial was born of that one moment in time where a three-year-strong couple confided in one another their own personal desires of their forthcoming years: a house together, careers... marriage, of the latter Ally simply could not allow herself the privilege of dreaming. It was not something that people like her had the pleasure of relishing in. Born in that very moment was the realization that their relationship had all been but a fantasy- a mess of years wasted in truth, faithfulness and honor from one participant, whilst the other abstained from the truth of herself, her situation, everything but her irrevocable love and moony-eyed adoration for the man.

It was that very same affection that was keeping her bolted to the chair on which she perched, in the restaurant that been ‘theirs’ since that long-ago first date. Every noise, every soft hum surrounding them almost seemed too much now, too deafening for her to withstand. Before, it had all been but a dull mumbling wandering around in the background of her mind, but now? Now the mutters were uproarious screams, the shrill scrapes of chair legs against mahogany floorboards were like nails down the harshest of chalkboards, and every clatter of cutlery – whether it be against silverware alike, or plates now vacant of food – had taken on the character of a gunshot. The previously beautiful melody born of the live violins, the bows graciously gliding across the strings, was reminiscent of bloodcurdling, cacophonous sharpness of metal-on-metal; a screech not unlike that of a train grinding against its tracks.

She wanted to run –wanted nothing more than to grab her Hilde Palladino handbag and flee from the scene: the scene of Dean kneeling on the floor before her, with that admittedly-impressive ring in that equally-stunning red velvet case. The scene of that same honorable man holding said case in hands so shaky that she felt an urge to calm them with the gentle clasp of her own delicate hands, though she was sure that shaky hands upon shaky hands would only serve to double the quaking. Time had never gone more languidly than it did in those moments after words that should have promised delight hung heavy in the air around the couple. Instead, Ally was overcome with an insurmountable number of flashbacks in such a short span of time that her head – hair a Brigitte Bardot tumble of gold – spun-- and not just as a result of the generous-sized glass of Kalleske Eduard Shiraz she had downed the instant it had arrived at their table.

All at once, she was no longer bolted to the chair. Like an arrow being shot from a bow, Ally shot from her seat in such an abrupt manner that her firm left thigh bumped the edge of the perfect-for-two square tabletop. The table staggered slightly in its place, sending one of the pristine, polished glasses toppling over so that its grapey, red contents splattered over the immaculate linen tablecloth, and onto the hip of Ally’s light pink bodycon dress. With a cuss hissed under her breath, she snatched up one of the napkins from the table and dabbed at her now stained dress before promptly stuttering out a request to be excused for “just one moment”. Of course, her wish was met with a slightly deflated, but nonetheless gentlemanly permit that Ally wasted no time in seizing. Napkin still clutched in shaky alabaster hand, she all but ran from the table, through the maze of diners, to the mansion-worthy bathroom of the five-star establishment. She didn’t make a point of verifying that she was alone before her tremulous body leaned its entire sixty kilograms against the white marble counter. White-knuckled hands grasped at the edge as her glistening blue eyes bore directly into their own reflection; a reflection that resembled nothing other than a genetically-blessed blonde woman to anyone who laid eyes upon her. But to Ally, that mirror image was so much more.

People like Dean, people who were naïve enough to assume the good in absolutely everyone they met, saw nothing but the exterior: perfectly-straight blonde hair that cascaded over flawless, airbrushed-esque shoulders and prominent collarbones, and framed a face that could have very well been mistaken for a work of art. They latched on to her time-perfected façade – gullibility, she had come to realize, was often one’s biggest mistake.

Not always had Ally been the embodiment of the perfect modern woman. There had been a time when she was a greasy-haired teen with more pimples than friends. There had been a period of her life – from age thirteen, to age seventeen, to be exact – when insults were commonplace. Those times continued to haunt her, and as she stared into those dark abysses that broke her blue globes, she was back in the shoes of that sixteen-year-old who had finally braved the storms of high school enough to embrace her true self. But high school was a minefield, and that teenager was just a stupid little kitten who underestimated its brutality- dared to joyously frolic across its deadly surface, unaware of just how quickly it would obliterate her. This proposal could be the very first salvation from those years of damaging explosions, if only Ally could let it. To say yes, however, was not an option.

That boy out at the table waiting for her- no, that man out there waiting for her could pretend all he wanted, but no amount of reassurances in the world could reverse the effects of a decade building up walls, enclosing oneself, and painting on layer upon layer until there was no trace left of the person suffocating beneath. Ally had been presented the offer of a lifetime; to spend the rest of the foreseeable eternity with the love of her life, and yet, there she was, questioning every single thing about the situation. Not because Dean didn’t deserve her, but rather the opposite; he deserved more than Ally could ever be: he deserved truth and honesty from his partner, he deserved a “real woman”, not some liar hiding behind a permanent mask—not some deceitful, emotionally-barren twenty-six-year-old who only became her true self ten years ago… Not some made-creature who still tensed unbelievably at such a simple six-letter word; tranny.

She could never tell him. She could never tell him the truth behind those toned muscles, or the truth that lay beneath that glossy blonde hair. She could never reveal the origin of the trauma that came with the very scent of her own perfume, the perfume that a sixteen-year-old girl trapped in the body of a sixteen-year-old boy would wear, only to be condemned for doing so. The dark depth behind those glistening blue globes Ally called eyes and her polite, agreeable smile would be too much for Dean’s heart to allow, no matter the kindness housed within him. No, Ally’s shoulders — alabaster complexion and delicate bones displayed as a testament to her new self — must carry the weight of the façade alone.