Danielle’s Second Skin

If Danielle hadn’t arrived early to the painfully hip bar, her favorite booth in the corner would be taken by either a couple or a party of four, digging into their greasy appetizers and embarrassingly large beers, smearing the tabletop with dollops of stray dip and condensation from their glasses. It would be an hour on a good day, three if the group is chatty, before the table was free again. The servers let her move there as long as she kept ordering diet soda and mozzarella sticks. This was her ‘socializing space’, even if the only socializing she did was ordering her meager meal and avoiding eye contact. 

Once secure in the booth, Danielle would plop her malformed purse onto the table and spread her belongings. Her laptop sat on the edge of the table, two random books stacked to the left, a binder full of blank lined paper and an expensive moleskin journal stacked on her right with the diet soda and mozzarella sticks pushed behind her laptop, mostly half-eaten and forgotten. Scrunched against the wall would be her coat. 

Passed down from her dead godmother, this long and mysteriously hairy coat was Danielle’s second skin. Her family tried to determine what the material of the coat was; too rough to be chinchilla, too cheap to be lynx or sable. 

“It doesn’t matter,” her godmother had whispered to Danielle with an excited grin left skeletal from the cancer. “Whenever I wanted to be left alone, that coat gave me my wish.”

True to her word, the coat made Danielle seep into the background. Oddly it grew with her, always oversized enough to be considered ‘passably fashionable’ if it weren’t so hideous. The jeering from those who saw her carrying the ugly thing abruptly changed once she slipped it on, resuming or igniting new conversations around but never with her. She liked it that way.

Uncomfortable conversations? Coat. Mother’s funeral? Coat. Obsessive and touchy father? Coat. Danielle could shrug it on and escape, erasing herself from the scene. Back into her bubble she went, and there she stayed until she had the guts to take it off again.

Danielle went to the bar to be productive, hoping that people-watching would help her writing. On good days she would be on her favorite roleplay forums, typing away with prose that made her heart beam. In those group chats, Danielle would eat up the praise of her writing, always bashfully dismissing the compliments before returning them, even if she thought most of their writing was mediocre. Nevermind most of them were teenagers or children. 

From high fantasy faerie smut to wolves with long dyed bangs, Danielle thrived in these forums. Their approval made her think she could write seriously. So here she was a year after earning her BFA in English literature, unemployed and attempting to write something serious.

Now late with the bar full, she watched a man approach a group of girls, maybe a little younger than herself. He had successfully herded a blonde away from her friends, blocking them with his large body. The girl smiled kindly and uncomfortably accepted the drinks he kept ordering. Danielle could spot other girls like her quickly. Meek, nonconfrontational. Just smile and maybe they’ll go away. This man didn’t.

The girl’s friends were too far gone, deep in their drinks and on the dance floor to notice the man’s behavior or their friend’s pleading gaze. Now drunk herself, the blonde managed to stumble off her stool and attempt to shrug the man off, wobbly as she headed to the door. The man followed close behind.

Danielle usually didn’t follow, but she saw herself in that girl. Sometimes her bravery would be at its peak and get her out of her comfort zone, but it always ended with uncomfortable situations. On Danielle's coat would go and back to square one, waiting for courage to build up again. This girl could use her coat. Maybe this could end differently. Packing her things, leaving cash for her bill, Danielle’s confidence rose as she pursued.

Around the corner, slipping past the bustling crowd, Danielle found them in an alley. The blonde was refusing him, shaking her head and trying to walk away. His voice got louder, now pushing and cornering her.

She watched as he shouted some more, then pushed the girl away and into the brick wall. A sickly crack echoed in the alley. The girl, head tilted back, her mouth still agape as she slipped limp to the ground. The man stared down at her, his brow still furrowed. Danielle could see his brain slowly catching up, as if real life was delayed. 

What should happen went like this, Danielle thought. A normal, stronger girl would bolt towards them, yelling and screaming while kneeling at the girl’s side. She would have friends with her who fearlessly followed her lead. Some would forcefully make the man back away, tasers and pepper spray in hand while jabbing his shoulder and chest with their sharp nail extensions, glitter sparkling against the grime. He would open and close his mouth like a fish, staring at the limp girl as others created a human shield, making sure not to move her head as one dialed 911, another racing back inside for the manager. They made sure to cause a scene, to get as many people as they could to see what he did. The police would come and receive very truthful and thorough explanations of what happened, told from glossed and lined lips.

Not Danielle.

She had stood there long enough for the man to realize he was being watched. Admittedly, stupidly, they stared at each other for a brief moment. Danielle took her coat, frantically swept it over her shoulders, and disappeared.