The Scarf
By Michelle Smith

It's 10:00; I've been standing for four hours. Maryja is asleep, nestled deep in her blankets. Shifting my weight, I see the tin and count the coins: there's about two zlote. That's enough to get Maryja a jam-filled paczek at Cafˇ Brama, and maybe I can beg Kasia for a coffee. At this hour, her boss will be in his office drinking vodka, and she'll be able to pour me one secretly.

My neck hurts. Keeping it in this praying, pleading position isn't as easy as it looks. I push my shoulders back, stretch my neck and see that the blanket has slipped off Maryja's legs. I walk around to face her and kneel, adjusting the blanket over her lower body. As always, I'm struck by the painful stick-like thinness of her legs. No muscle, no form, no strength: she's never used them. When she was a baby, I never heard her gurgle with laughter as I tickled her toes. She's never walked, skipped, run. Her legs don't feel any cold, but I don't want her getting frostbite again.

I resume my position behind the wheelchair, lower my head, clasp my hands together. And wait.

To my left, I hear a door slam: it's the woman who lives above the cafe. She's on her mobile, as usual. Her high-pitched chatter Š careless, pointless Š approaches, her high heels click. As she reaches us, she ends her call with an airy "Pa, pa." Her skirt is too short, her makeup too thick, her hair too blonde, her nails have pink and gold butterflies on them. She gives me her usual scornful glance, doesn't look at Maryja. My lips tighten as I hold back all the things I want to say to this spoiled bitch: what I want more than anything else is for her to stand here and be looked at like that by a stranger, just once. She adjusts the scarf around her throat and opens the cafˇ door, going in for her morning eight zlotych Cappuccino. My eyes roam over the scarf trailing behind her like a sunbeam, wondering if she appreciates it at all, wishing I could touch it. I like yellow.

**

I adjust the scarf around my throat, feeling as though it's strangling me: it's a present from Marek and is heavy on my neck, weighing me down with its guilt. He's promised for the past year to tell his wife about us, but last night he told me that she's pregnant. The scarf, still half in its Warsaw luxury boutique box, lay across my kitchen table as he told me this; it looked line a battle line drawn between us.

As usual, I did all the wrong things: I cursed, threw his wine glass against the wall, threatened to tell his wife, went too far. Today my cheek throbs, but I'm an expert at covering bruises with makeup Š I've been doing it since I was 13.

At a corner table, I shed my coat gracefully, unwrap my scarf slowly, revealing myself to my audience a bit at a time, as I was taught at work. I nod at fat Kasia behind the counter to bring me a Cappuccino. Watching her lumpishly plod towards me, I amuse myself by being critical of her square peasant body, with its floppy breasts and jiggling tummy. I toss my hair, cross my slim legs under the tight black skirt (another guilt gift from Marek), and know that I look good. When I came into the cafˇ, men's heads swivelled and women's eyes narrowed, as if taking aim. It's not much, but it is something.

My mobile rings: it's Marek. I take a delicate sip of my coffee and put the phone to my ear.

"Hello?" someone who is not Marek says.

I'm so surprised to hear a woman's voice that I don't answer.

"Hello?" she says again. "Is that the slut sleeping with my husband?" I stop breathing.

"I know you can hear me, you low-life tramp. I know who you are and where you work Š at that sex agency that pretends to be a beauty salon, near the church. You listen to me: I will not lose another baby because of you Š I lost one ten months ago, when I first found out about you, I bet he never mentioned it. If he comes home smelling of your cheap stink once more, I'll call some people who'll make sure that your face isn't fit to be seen. They'll use razors. You understand, you piece of trash bitch?" She hangs up.

My head in buzzing. Never before has a wife known more about me than I do about her; has she been following me? Which of the hostile female eyes on my body have been hers? I wonder if she's watching me right now.

Leaving money on the table, picking up my coat, exiting Cafˇ Brama: all routine things. But today I see that I am over-bright and over-exposed. In the crosshairs. My scalp prickles, I feel as though an 'X' is drawn between my shoulderblades. As I leave the cafˇ, I resist the urge to look over my shoulder.

**

I always know when she leaves the cafˇ; there's a shifting of energy, a focusing of attention as everyone watches her go. Even when my back is turned, I sense it: the reverent pause as appreciative and envious eyes move over that very publicly-displayed body.

At the table, her cup is full and her scarf is on the floor. Looking around furtively, I stuff the scarf up my sleeve. In the staffroom there's a mirror, just big enough to show my face, so much like my grandmother's. Imagining a 1950s starlet Š banishing the 1970s Communist peasant that I actually resemble - I drape the scarf loosely over my head, wrap it around my throat, see how it brightens my face. All I need is a pair of white sunglasses and some red lipstick. I'd almost be pretty.