Disappearing In Full View

There's a quiet sadness to her body, folded in on itself, chin tucked, hair parted and held hostage with a jewelled barrette and plastic comb. Rose is written on the side of her paper coffee cup in strident black sharpie, a reminder or a banner. She delicately picks away at her muffin, working her way through the body of it, leaving the top for last. Always delaying gratification. She still wears her wedding ring. It's been 7 years. She feels incomplete without it, disassembled. Her daughters have given up. They live in Victoria now. Rose tells herself that's why they don't call or visit. The time difference, the flights, her 300 square foot apartment. The money from the estate sale is long gone and disability doesn't afford much. The tea and muffin are a decadent treat, a splurge better spent on real bills and groceries but here amongst the writers and students, the sea of stroller bearing mothers, she disappears in full view. There's comfort in being invisible here. No one sees her so no one passes judgement. Expectations dissolve. They ask her name every time. Some days Rose makes one up, Lauren, Melee, Catherine, Joanne. No one ever remembers her as Rose. On Carolyn or Elizabeth days she reimagines her entire existence, rewrites her life history. This happens frequently now, three or four times a week. She fears soon someone will catch on, question her about it. Confront her. She breaks off a piece of the crisp muffin top and lets it melt slowly in her mouth, savouring it til it disappears.