Magda sits alone and naked in the decorative fountain at the Boynton Beach Mall, right near the detour towards the Food Court. She hides amongst the plastic (or low-maintenance) ferns in order to not attract the attention of the all too wichtigtuer[*] Security Guard patrolling on his Segway. Only the little boys ogle her lithe and unfamiliar feminine parts, too shocked to alert authorities parental or otherwise.
When you’re nude, slipping into a loving body of water can help you acclimate and put you into an appropriate mood for wearing your birthday suit. You feel less naked when you’re being hugged by warm water in and out.
Magda feels less naked in the water. She still feels naked, though.
The matter of how she got there is neither here nor there because Magda is here: in a chlorinated pool/fountain speckled with casual change, naked but for her glasses and tampon, hiding in a barely passable excuse for scenery. The water isn’t too cold, but for some reason Southern Floridians are unable to comprehend a place with the designation “inside” that isn’t mind-numbingly cold. They can put up with year-round heats up to the 90’s, humidities in the 80’s, and at least one annual hurricane hissy fit (sometimes even actual hurricanes). But by God if they have to be inside for one-fucking-second and not feel the brittle goose-bumps of an A/C set to 65 and all the fans on full-blast, they’ll eat their goddamned shorts.
So Magda begins to shiver if she stretches from her aquatic hiding spot. She could stay in there and skip the day no problem if she wants to. She has the patience and freedom to do so, and she certainly enjoys the free feeling of being a little exposed. But she feels cooped up, stuck in a hesitant non-chalance about the legality of her current state, the quality of her concealment, and the actions of that douche-bag on the Segway if he were to be made aware of her vulnerable presence.
She has to make a break. It’s all she can do. Bee-line for UO, or AA, or H&M, or ANYTHING and grab some sort of covering. Then she’ll walk home or call a friend to pick her up by borrowing someone’s phone. She has a tenuous plan; now she needs the cajones.
She looks down and sizes up where crunching into a ball (to maintain submersion in a foot and a half of water) makes her look fat or pudgy. The same fucking places: below her belly button, the tops of her thighs, even her boobs, subjectively her best feature, look weird suspended in liquid without a bikini-bra to reel them in and keep them from roaming the chlorinated wild. She looks hard at all the things she hates. Then she looks hard at the H&M right across from her ferns. 30 paces, maybe. She looks down again, closes her eyes, and lets a few concerted breaths pass before rising.
She is swift but not rushed. She straightens up and out of the water and pauses a moment to let the majority of the water splash back into the knee-high pool. Then, in expert strides, she walks purposefully towards the trendy shop. She wears her face with a smile, but it isn’t obnoxious. She makes eye-contact exactly twice in the 27 steps it actually takes: once to a little boy who isn’t old enough to be looking and once to a young man who is just old enough. She lets a tooth slip into her reserved smile only when she locks eyes with the boy: “Oops,” perhaps.
The ladies section is thankfully in front. She goes first for one with beautiful colors, but she realizes upon closer inspection that the fit will be off without a proper bra in between her breasts and the fabric. So she moves to a teal number with a reasonable neckline, grabs an M, and throws it on.
She walks to the checkout and lets her smile move into minor embarrassment and her eyes roll up slyly as she approaches the cashier. He is stopped dead in his tracks. For three minutes he’d been standing this way, motionless save for a slightly delayed tracking of his head to her movements.
She finishes her ‘embarrassed’ act and leans over the counter as her right hand fumbles down the back of the flowy, blue-green sundress.
“Little help?” she lobs his way as she finally locates the alarm sensor attached on the inside about half-way down the dress’s back. His mouth slowly descends as he processes what she wants and looks down desperately only to find the sensor-remover attached firmly into the checkout counter, out of helpful reach if the dress is the remain on Magda’s now-covered body.
The cashier’s mouth’s opening is now fully-formed but his thoughts are anything but. Luckily Magda, sensing his legitimate conundrum and inability to communicate, holds up a finger and moves along the counter towards the employee entrance.
He chuckles stupidly and steps aside, letting her access the alarm-sensor-remover. She bends over the counter again, has a small chuckle herself, and turns around while maintaining her lean in the limbo position. She guides the little piece of plastic on her back into the slot on the counter until it clicks and falls in two. Still in limbo, she gives him a little wink to signal success.
She bounces back around to the customer side and heads for the door. As she gets to the separators that hold the alarm that would’ve yelled at her 10 seconds before, she stops. She turns with a serious face on, snaps her eyes into his and says, honestly, “Thanks.”
Then she leaves.
[*] Literally, in German: as-if-important-doer
When you’re nude, slipping into a loving body of water can help you acclimate and put you into an appropriate mood for wearing your birthday suit. You feel less naked when you’re being hugged by warm water in and out.
Magda feels less naked in the water. She still feels naked, though.
The matter of how she got there is neither here nor there because Magda is here: in a chlorinated pool/fountain speckled with casual change, naked but for her glasses and tampon, hiding in a barely passable excuse for scenery. The water isn’t too cold, but for some reason Southern Floridians are unable to comprehend a place with the designation “inside” that isn’t mind-numbingly cold. They can put up with year-round heats up to the 90’s, humidities in the 80’s, and at least one annual hurricane hissy fit (sometimes even actual hurricanes). But by God if they have to be inside for one-fucking-second and not feel the brittle goose-bumps of an A/C set to 65 and all the fans on full-blast, they’ll eat their goddamned shorts.
So Magda begins to shiver if she stretches from her aquatic hiding spot. She could stay in there and skip the day no problem if she wants to. She has the patience and freedom to do so, and she certainly enjoys the free feeling of being a little exposed. But she feels cooped up, stuck in a hesitant non-chalance about the legality of her current state, the quality of her concealment, and the actions of that douche-bag on the Segway if he were to be made aware of her vulnerable presence.
She has to make a break. It’s all she can do. Bee-line for UO, or AA, or H&M, or ANYTHING and grab some sort of covering. Then she’ll walk home or call a friend to pick her up by borrowing someone’s phone. She has a tenuous plan; now she needs the cajones.
She looks down and sizes up where crunching into a ball (to maintain submersion in a foot and a half of water) makes her look fat or pudgy. The same fucking places: below her belly button, the tops of her thighs, even her boobs, subjectively her best feature, look weird suspended in liquid without a bikini-bra to reel them in and keep them from roaming the chlorinated wild. She looks hard at all the things she hates. Then she looks hard at the H&M right across from her ferns. 30 paces, maybe. She looks down again, closes her eyes, and lets a few concerted breaths pass before rising.
She is swift but not rushed. She straightens up and out of the water and pauses a moment to let the majority of the water splash back into the knee-high pool. Then, in expert strides, she walks purposefully towards the trendy shop. She wears her face with a smile, but it isn’t obnoxious. She makes eye-contact exactly twice in the 27 steps it actually takes: once to a little boy who isn’t old enough to be looking and once to a young man who is just old enough. She lets a tooth slip into her reserved smile only when she locks eyes with the boy: “Oops,” perhaps.
The ladies section is thankfully in front. She goes first for one with beautiful colors, but she realizes upon closer inspection that the fit will be off without a proper bra in between her breasts and the fabric. So she moves to a teal number with a reasonable neckline, grabs an M, and throws it on.
She walks to the checkout and lets her smile move into minor embarrassment and her eyes roll up slyly as she approaches the cashier. He is stopped dead in his tracks. For three minutes he’d been standing this way, motionless save for a slightly delayed tracking of his head to her movements.
She finishes her ‘embarrassed’ act and leans over the counter as her right hand fumbles down the back of the flowy, blue-green sundress.
“Little help?” she lobs his way as she finally locates the alarm sensor attached on the inside about half-way down the dress’s back. His mouth slowly descends as he processes what she wants and looks down desperately only to find the sensor-remover attached firmly into the checkout counter, out of helpful reach if the dress is the remain on Magda’s now-covered body.
The cashier’s mouth’s opening is now fully-formed but his thoughts are anything but. Luckily Magda, sensing his legitimate conundrum and inability to communicate, holds up a finger and moves along the counter towards the employee entrance.
He chuckles stupidly and steps aside, letting her access the alarm-sensor-remover. She bends over the counter again, has a small chuckle herself, and turns around while maintaining her lean in the limbo position. She guides the little piece of plastic on her back into the slot on the counter until it clicks and falls in two. Still in limbo, she gives him a little wink to signal success.
She bounces back around to the customer side and heads for the door. As she gets to the separators that hold the alarm that would’ve yelled at her 10 seconds before, she stops. She turns with a serious face on, snaps her eyes into his and says, honestly, “Thanks.”
Then she leaves.
[*] Literally, in German: as-if-important-doer