For the hundredth time, she glances down with mixed emotions.
The steadily moving clouds pass over the sun, casting a shadow over the young woman. The warmed wicker chair cools from the sudden breeze.
The bustle of afternoon foot traffic usually captures her attention, the variety of individuals satiating her hyperactive imagination.
However, this afternoon, her concentration is selfishly centered.
She tips her feet apart, the black sandals a recognizable choice of hers. Her capri pant expose a slight portion of her leg.
The voice echoes, disgusted and judgmental. "Do you shave?"
She leans back in the wicker, tilting her leg in the emerging sunlight. She waits for the shame to creep up, as it did when she was younger.
The prickles of lightly dusted hair are hardly noticeable. She smiles, looking past the imperfection and into the sea of individuals.
The shame never appears. Neither does any fucks.