Then I lift my arm and get a whiff of my underarm, and yikes.
It really has been too long since I’ve bathed. Gross! Talk about fish monster. She is me.
The heat of the water hits me hard as I stand directly under the stream. For all my complaints about my shitty apartment, the water pressure is A-plus.
I grab a washcloth and some soap and begin scrubbing at the dirt and grime.
As I scrub, I notice my skin doesn’t feel as soft as it used to. It’s almost a little rough in nature. Man, I’ve been really negligent in the upkeep. And my eerie blue veins . . . ugh, when did they get like this? Maybe a direct result of a vitamin D deficiency.
Still, I scrub until my skin has smoothed. Next I tackle my hair, squeezing on a glop of shampoo and massaging it deep into my scalp.
Despite myself, the entire thing calms me. As I’m rinsing off, I realize this is the best I’ve physically felt in days.
Showers. Maybe I should try them more? Why did I stop taking them anyway? But I know why. I know the deep depression that holds onto my insides and sucks me beneath the surface every night. But I can ignore that problem for now. Because now something exciting is about to happen.
I slather on lotion to counteract the weird roughness of my arms. Seems to work. The lotion soothes and absorbs, although my skin still feels a little damp. And then I open my closet door. I haven’t visited anything inside this room in weeks, but I can’t wear my sweatshirt.
This calls for totally normal clothes. For all Mack knows, I’m a normal woman who does totally normal woman things: walks the dog, shops for groceries, showers on the daily, visits her family, interacts with maybe more than one single friend.
I choose a green slip dress, shimmery but dark, and pull it over my body, flipping out the ends of my wet hair that get stuck into the back of the dress. The straps are thin, and the front is a V but not too deep. The dress is old. From college.
I catch a glimpse of myself in my full-length mirror.
Have you sent your pictures to that agency I recommended? The voice of my mother echoes in my head. You could make a lot more money with modeling than you can with writing.
I’m still beautiful. I almost do a double take since I so rarely look at myself in the mirror. I’m beautiful but a little gaunt, but that’s to be expected given my hermit-like mentality. I almost thought it’d be worse really. In my head, I’m an old crone, a witch covered in jellyfish; touch me and die.
But on the outside, I don’t look like that at all.
Except for the weird blue hue of my veins, of course.
Still, I’m physically beautiful. I know I’m beautiful. I’ve always been. It’s the one thing I’ve always known to be true about myself.
I open the blinds, and bold morning sun blasts through the glass of my window.
Well, at least I know what time of day it is now. The light is convenient.
I turn on my forward-facing camera and snap a picture. I don’t need another try. First one did the job. I have a small smile, but I can’t bear to show my teeth. I don’t smile big in pictures; this is the most anyone will get out of me. Even Mack.
He’ll like what he sees. I know he will. In that sense, I’m a little giddy with glee.
But in a much bigger sense, I know I’m a liar. I’m the real catfish. The real person inside me is not the person reflected on the outside, aesthetically correct though she may be.
Luckily, the internet isn’t real.
It’s been fifteen minutes. He’s been waiting.
I attach the picture to a message and send it to him.
A reply immediately appears.
Mack: Oh. Okay.
Oh. Okay? What the fuck? But another message pops up right after.
Mack: You’re . . . gorgeous. I had no idea.
Hmmm.
Jules: You sound disappointed.
Mack: No, of course not.
Mack: Maybe a little worried.
Jules: Worried? Why?
Mack: You might be disappointed with what I send back.
Jules: I’ve never been the kind of girl who cares about looks.
I don’t mean it in a not like other girls kind of way. I’ve just never held physical attraction in high regard. I never found the male models who had their hands on me on shoots sexy. Their touch didn’t turn me on. I googled it once, and I think I’m something called demisexual. But to be honest, I’ve never really thought about it much. I’m no virgin, but I’m pretty inexperienced sexually. Agoraphobia will do that to a girl.
Mack is quiet for so long I’m convinced he’s not going to respond. My heart sinks at the thought. After we’ve opened this little door to each other, I’m sparking with curiosity now. I want to know who I’m talking to. And the fact that he isn’t responding makes me surprisingly and deeply sad.
Until I see typing again.
Mack: Here goes nothing.
