Work Text:
She contemplates her legs in the bath.
The little bomb ball thing Frances had gotten her has turned the water a dark purple-black, with twinkling bits of glitter and spherical beads presumably intended to resemble planets. A tiny blue ball floated past her knee. Maybe it was Uranus.
Heh. Uranus. Blue balls. Clearly her humor had not changed in decades.
She thinks about who she’s been and who she’s always wanted to be. She remembers that recent interview where she rambled about expression and identity being concepts independent of each other. She reflects on all the women she’s admired and what they would think, what advice they would give.
She already knows how’d they would respond. Fuck the influence of the patriarchy and cishetero bullshit. A woman’s identity isn’t validated by the smoothness of her legs.
Shit. That almost sounded like Jenny Holzer. Maybe even songworthy.
The pink razor stays untouched in a corner of the tub. The Big Shave can wait for another day.
A day when Venus isn’t floating so weirdly ominous-like over her crotch.