Somewhere along the line, we began talking about shins, and then ankles, and then she told me that if I wrote a story for her, she would take a photo of her ankles as part of her project. Me, I figured it was Valentine's Day, figured who didn't like ankles, and figured it would be just shiny. I figured a lot that day and I figured well:
When she was thirteen, she decided to hide her ankles beneath thick stockings.
The decision was reached two days after her birthday, a quiet day that was marked only by the twenty dollars her mother, in a new relationship of divorce and unemployment, gave her. Being quite indescribable (and by this, I mean the author refuses to divulge, and shall keep a secret just for himself) she caught the bus into a cold, grey sprawling shopping complex to buy a Joy Division album that she would not like much, later. It was on the return cold bus ride where, sitting at the back, that she met a man who offered her forty dollars to show him her ankles. He, unlike her, was describable, but only by his one defining characteristic which was that he had legs made from hollow, but polished wood, and which stuck awkwardly into the isle as he turned to face her. He was young, also, though older than her by her life at least; the rest a reader will have to decide, based on tone, sympathy, and their own imagination, just how much older, and how attractive or not that he was. Still, back in our bus, and our girl, the heroine, reasoned in a pragmatic way that if she didn't like the black covered album in her bag, that she would come out no worse for wear—and in fact would come out better—if she agreed to his proposition.
Follow the link to see the photo, and to read the rest of the little story. You know you must.