Ordering

At first it was self defence. They never got her name right, and it made her squirm. At one place they made her spell it out, so embarrassing.  All she wanted was a bloody sandwich. So she lied.

Sally, Jenny, Angela.  She gave so many different names she started to get funny looks at her local haunts; she had to go further away from work and start afresh. 

Sarah, Rachel, Sam. It was liberating when they didn't know your real name. She'd never really realised what an intimate thing it was, when they asked it. Somehow it broke an unspoken contract: a sudden demand for intimacy, that didn’t let you keep the

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walls up. But not anymore. She became emboldened by the pretence.  As Christine she sent her trim latte back: too cold. The next day it was a pita pocket, they knew she wanted it toasted, but they put lettuce in it anyway. Lettuce. Cooked. Disgusting! Next thing, she couldn't go back to Subway, they had banned her. Well, they banned Fiona, bad tempered cow. 

Anna, Lisa, Linda. The more she lied the more invisible she felt, and the more unsatisfied. She was hungry. So hungry! She was always hungry. But nothing was ever enough. A wrap, a soy trim latte, a baked potato with the works. Did she want plain or wholemeal? Did she want olives? She didn’t even know. 

One morning at the end of winter she stood in front of her wardrobe, trying to pick an outfit. It was no good. She needed someone else’s clothes. How could she leave the house without a disguise? 

She slumped down at the kitchen table, and cried. How could this happen? Who was she? She should probably call in sick.

But instead she rang her own number at work, over and over, listening to her voice on the answerphone.