I. Maggie Bright stood
on the scale
and blinked
at the flickering neon display.
Stepping off the glass,
she slunk to the kitchen,
through the Vogues,
the Elles, and the Cosmopolitans
littering the passageway
to tear at delicate greens
waiting and wilting
in the fridge.
She shook out the leaves
from the salad spinner,
spraying droplets of water
on the Instyle
sitting on the counter.
Maggie picked at the spot
of wrinkled paper,
til the model’s body,
once so smooth,
so smilingly perfect,
became a withering blotch.
II. Maggie Bright stood
at the water’s edge
and blinked
at the vast expanse of blue.
Ignoring the giggles and sly glances,
she chasse’d
into the cool Pacific,
through the crowds,
a whale in a sea of sardines.
As the tide rushed in,
slapping against her knees,
she dove into the
frolicking bubbles
and butterflied past
the tanned and toned,
the coiffed and plucked.
Stroke after stroke
Maggie sailed through the surf
until land and people vanished
and she alone floated,
a tiny speck
in Lycra red.
Response to the Daily Prompt: Pressure

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