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  • Writer's pictureCynthia Gulley

DOLLFACE by “a true feminist”

Updated: May 20

Figures.


I’m stuck behind a living, fucking doll. The line for latte’s this morning is long so I fill my time by ogling her. She’s doesn’t belong here. She’s nothing but a mean girl, click-clacking through life in red-sole shoes and platinum bow-tied hair. Did she not notice the flags, both Tibetan and rainbow, wrapping around the coffee shop?


Her shoulders rise and fall slightly as she reads the chalk-smeared menu. She taps her left index finger on the outside of her thigh and reaches her right hand around her head to smooth her hair. I spot a line of poetry etched in forearm and before I can read it, she lowered her arm back down.


It’s her turn to order.


She tugs her flared leather skirt and steps to the counter, where cashier Agnes, a gem in blue hair crooked smiles at her, “What time did you get up this morning?”


Dollface answers, “Too late to grab you for round two. When’s your next break?”



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