It’s Writing Challenge Number Two of the aptly named Muse Wars. This time MadMother has set the challenge. And here’s my entry. Enjoy!
His name, at night, was Amanda.
It was a cathartic process, becoming her, and Amanda was one gorgeous, gutsy chick. She was confident in a way he never could be, outrageous in a way he always wanted to be. She took no prisoners, listened to no bullshit.
Daytime, he was Peter. Peter was a quiet, unremarkable kid who worked stacking shelves at the local Woolies. Peter lived a quiet, unremarkable life. Peter was the kid who, at school, had only been noticed when he was wedgied or flushed. Peter never had girlfriends, and his few friends were as unremarkable as he.
But on Friday nights, Peter sat and waited quietly. He never did much on a Friday night. Friday nights were when Amanda came. She pressed on the long, red nails. She applied the heavy make up, the stocking cap, the wig that had cost a whole week of Peter’s wages. It was Amanda who rolled on the stockings, fixed the garters in place, stuffed the lacy black bra.
And later tonight, it would be Amanda who would be drinking. Amanda who would flirt, laugh, talk loudly and sing karaoke. Amanda who would tease, and provoke, and pull back just in time, just before she got them both into trouble. Amanda, who would sashay the streets on the city, cigarette in hand, eyes under dark lashes flicking from faces to footpath.
The night air was calling. Amanda stood, stretched, inches taller in her heels. And as she leaves, she pauses, just for a moment. She is sure she can see a shadow of Peter, sitting on the bed. Waiting for her return.
Amanda walks away.