Chapter Text
It was Monday, and I saw her again. Soaping up the whirlwind. She cleans the interior Thursday, ready for the final polish Friday. The Eyes use it over the weekend. She’s a Martha, I think. I’ve never seen her cook, or clean, or even bring tea to Fred. I don’t know of her name, although that’s not unusual, she probably doesn’t care to know mine. I miss not knowing their names. I miss the familiarity of it. Everything’s so simple nowadays, you get a title, it becomes your name, your job, what you’re worth.
I am a Wife. It is my duty to support my husband and follow the rules of Gilead. I must set a good example to the other Wives, Marthas, Handmaids, Econowives, and most importantly, the children. I will be honest; I don’t hate it. I know I’m better off than the majority of the women here, and I’m proud I made it this far up. If not to save my own back, I did genuinely love Fred. I wanted to follow his ideology, it was exciting, thrilling, chills-through-the-spine; but became so caught up in it, I forgot all these rules and regulations would apply to me too. I forgot I would no longer be able to read, write, know what was right for me, know what I wanted. But you must understand, I was tangled in the mess before I knew what had happened.
I met Fred in the late summer of ’87. I waited tables in some fancy restaurant in a business plaza he worked in. I was on the TV too, Serena Joy’s Hymns of the Morning. I loved it, getting dressed in a flowy white dress, singing to all these lovely little children. I only got to do it once a week though, and unsurprisingly, I wasn’t paid much. So, I waited tables, during the afternoons mostly. During the lunch period, it was loud, so not many of the higher-up men came in. it was dying down, and Fred walked it, briefcase and a personal assistant on his left side. I strode up to meet him at the entrance, I was wearing my stilettos and I was taller than the average woman too, so I met his eye level. It was strange to most men to have to look straight forward or up to a woman, especially a high-ranking man like Mr Waterford. He dismissed his assistant, I learned her name was Edith, and I lead him to a table in the far right corner, in the section with the lights dimmed and the wooden tables polished. I took his coat, pulled out a chair and handed him a menu. He smoothed over the front of my hand as he took it, his eyes meeting mine.
I knew what he would request, I’d been a waitress long enough to hear the complaints about his food not being perfect. Most of them were quite funny, the other girls were always whining about the misdemeanors of his dinner.
Medium-rare steak with vegetables and no gravy. A glass of cold water, don’t bring a jug over. A portion of bread and butter on the side.
After he finished his food, he lingered longer than usual. It wasn’t strange for the men to stay and do work, write letters to their wives for later on, even have meetings here. But he didn’t do any of those. He waited until I had finished, caught me as I was pulling my hair down from the tight bun I had kept it in all day. It had kinks and odd waves and knots in it but it was less harsh and comfier. He took my wrist, made me jump a little, and asked if I would accompany him to dinner.
It was better than my frozen curry.
We saw a lot of each other after that. And we grew together.
I speak of this as if I am still that same girl who wanted rescuing. I am not.
I need an escape. An alternate reality. Somewhere where I am not the woman I have become.
Even if that is the girl working in the restaurant.