Emerson, Portals
Her mother used to say she’d model, if she wanted — brush moving through her hair, voice full of a pride that assumed the compliment was a gift. Was it wrong that she’d wanted to be seriously considered for her hard-earned abilities as an ER doctor, not her face because it might be attractive? No one had warned her that a face could become a job you never applied for, one with no fixed hours, one you can’t hide from, one you have to overcome, and no way to quit.
The train doesn’t stop at the next station. Emerson keeps her eyes shut a moment longer — finding peace within while she can.
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