Fish

Val Roberts

There are no hairs under my arms. The mirror behind the kitchen taps confirms. To be certain, I run my fingertips up and down each bald armpit to check for pricks. Then I pick up my Gillette from the empty Pot Noodle pot on the drainer, run its blade under cold water and slide it downwards, repeatedly, over my skin. I do this each morning. Evenings too.  
           When I was eleven, there were no razors in our household, apart from stepfather’s Bic. But whenever he gobbled his chippy food, the likes of chips and soggy battered fish would stick to his chin. I would imagine the blade of his razor slimy with haddock. So I allowed my armpit hairs to grow. They grew curly. Nobody taught me how to wash. No idea where my mother was. Was laughed at when I asked. My hairs turned yellow and gooey. 
           I remember I sat next to Michael Jones on a bench in school assembly once. I kept my elbows pressed against my ribs. Did not like the close proximity of other people. We were made to sit like that by the headmaster. Packed like fermented herrings in a tin. The gunge under my arms moistened with my nervousness. I smelled the aroma of my own sickly sweat. Michael tried to edge away but was unsuccessful, pinched his nose with his purple tie. You bloody stink, he said.
           As well as my daily shaves, I smell myself before leaving my apartment for work, just to make sure. I do not sit close to other secretaries. When I commenced my role years ago, I chose the workstation by the window, overlooking the city chippy. Often, I stretch my arms above my head, pretend to yawn, sniff myself for unpleasant odours.
           Following Michael Jones’s comment, I bolted myself in the bathroom, sneaked stepfather’s Bic from his Toby Jug, shaved off my hairs. Watched them slide down the sink into the plughole. I did not wash myself afterwards. The following morning in assembly, Michael elbowed me hard in the boob. Rotten fish, he said. You reek of rotten fish. 
          Stepfather laughed when I told him.