Long Sleeves or Short?

I don't really have much background on this story, other than observing a woman during a visit to a dentist office, and possibly a memory of a very good friend. I will say this though, I hope that all women will be able to choose to wear short sleeves if they want.

Long Sleeves or Short?

Sarah absently rubbed her smooth fingertips together, rubbing the worn circle on her left ring finger. The office felt too clean, too neat, and falsely warm; as if someone had tried to make it homey and overdone it. Abstract pictures of strange shapes covered the smooth, yellow and tan walls, which gleamed without a fingerprint. The yellow seemed pale and eerie, not soothing. The collage of shapes in the frames seemed angry, contorted, figures frozen in their anguish and redressed to appear happy. Redressed in long sleeves.

“Mrs. Gomez, go ahead and fill out the following questions on this form. Take as long as you would like. When you have finished, bring it up to the secretary by the door and she will call you as soon as a legal representative is free to speak with you. Do you have any questions?” Startled, Sarah refocused and realized that she had reached the receptionist’s desk. Somehow she must have given them her name and appointment. A polite sigh and cough near her left ear reminded her that there was a line.

“Oh, no, I don’t have any questions, thank you.” Taking the stapled pages from the polished fingernails of the receptionist, she turned back to the yellow waiting room, the click of her heels buried in the thick, dark red carpet. She reluctantly sat down on the end of a pale brocade sofa, eying the open space to her right distrustfully; all the chairs and privacy of two sides to herself were filled.

She bit her lip, feeling her lipstick slide on her teeth as she stared at the papers in her hand, willing herself to find the nerve to start. The first questions were easy, name, address, personal information. Sarah Gomez, age 28. She filled the white spaces in with black ink, taking time not to smudge her answers. At least, that was what she told herself. Slowly, she formed the letters, feeling them come out of her pen. Now his information. Sarah stared at the lines on the page and filled them out quickly, smudging lines in her haste to skip to the next page. The top line, Custody and Support of Minor Children, stared back at her.

Sarah sat back and stared at the odd shape on the wall. What was it? A man with his head near his feet? A woman drowning a baby? Or was she hugging it? A bunch of clouds playing charades of the people below? Sarah shook her head in distaste and forced her head to return to the paper in her lap.

“I don’t like them either,” Sarah looked up startled, staring at the stately older woman sitting next to her.

“Pardon?”

“The paintings. They distort reality; try to make it all seem different. But I think reality is distorted enough the way it is, don’t you think?” Sarah mumbled a noncommittal answer, which the woman took for assent and calmly continued speaking. “I have enough problems making sense of my own life, without having to make sense of these too.”

“But you don’t have to look at the paintings,” Sarah pointed out, “You could just ignore them.”

The woman smiled gently, “But they are not to be ignored, they’re in front of you. And if you avoid them, you will never understand them.” She calmly returned to her glossy magazine.

Sarah tried to return to her paper. The stench of some generic air freshener permeated the air and seeped into her head, causing her head to ache. She carefully wrote, Gerald Gomez, age 10 in the first slot. What would Gerald do when he found out? Would his lower lip curl in disdain? Would he stare sternly at her, demanding to know the source of her weakness? If she gave this form and her life savings to that white-suited secretary with a $100 pedicure, would it make things better?

She absently stroked her angora wool sweater. The swelling had gone down at least. If she signed these papers, she would never have to wear long sleeves again. Unless she wanted to. Carlos had always liked her to wear long sleeves though, after their wedding night he’d filled her wardrobe with sweaters, blouses and dresses. “So that no one will ever see your arms bare but me.” He had smiled at her.

“Don’t think about it,” she muttered to herself as she kept filling out the sweat dampened pages. The room was too warm. Those pictures kept staring at her. Why would they not go away? Debt Division, Home Division, Automobile Division, Spousal Support. What did all that matter anyway? Carlos would have everything. Carlos always had everything. She only had a silly typing certificate. He had given her a box “to put your personal things in”. She put her birth certificate, old love letters, high school degree and marriage license in it. But she used a different one, an old doughnut bag, crumpled under her mattress for her other things. Her things that slept under Carlos: the typing license, carefully earned when Carlos was gone; pages of her novel (not a journal, no, just fiction), where she was the heroine; a picture from Gerald when he was three.

Her stomach churned loudly, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten that day. Or yesterday maybe, hard to remember. Carlos said food doesn’t look pretty under skin. “Do you want a chocolate dear? I don’t have any real food, but I always keep some candy in my purse for my grandchildren.”

“No thank you,” Sarah answered the calm woman automatically and tried to smile. She never ate sugar. Carlos didn’t eat it. The woman put the sweet smelling bar back into her red leather bag.

“Well if you change your mind, don’t feel afraid to ask,” the woman carefully patted her brown curls and rearranged her silk blouse as she leaned back into her magazine. Sarah stared at her. There was food under the woman’s skin. Lumpy, out of place. But her sleeves were short, her arms were bare.

Somehow, the papers were finished. Sarah slipped her innocent-looking ink pen back into her own soft, brown leather bag. The question marks on the pages seemed to jump off the page and stare at her; they seemed to have eyes, dark eyes. She looked away and saw the pictures again. Why did the painter give the woman long sleeves? Did he know? Why was the child drowning in her arms? Why didn’t she pull him out? Or was that even a woman? The soft, rich tones of dark red, green and gold blurred together. She looked at the doors behind the secretary. They weren’t red, yellow or green. They were a warm brown. Real wood, maple maybe. They were different from the rest of the room. Her feet were carrying her, moving for her. She wasn’t moving them.

“Thank you, I believe that Mr. Hendricks will be available in a couple of moments. Would you mind waiting another moment or two until he is ready?”

Sarah took a deep breath, touching her angora sweater. “Of course, I’ll be over there, waiting. Right in the chair. Yes, of course I’ll be waiting.” The secretary looked at her strangely and turned to the short, scowling man behind Sarah. Sarah moved her feet now, purposefully. She marched her heels right back to the couch under the painting. She was glad that she only had one side to herself, the rest of the couch was shared, friendly. She turned to the woman with the brown perm. “Excuse me, but I am a little hungry. Do you still have that chocolate?”