Every now and then I get this look from people and I understand its connotation perfectly—I hastily stuff my necklaces underneath my shirt. Whether hidden beneath scratchy cotton or angelic silk they are covered and repressed as though they were not there.
If there was a convenient way to stuff them underneath skin so no one could see them, believe me, I would.
There’s three of them: one carries a testament to my heritage and on another hangs a hand-painted resin character from an alleged children’s movie. The third is the only one with two charms and it bears the heaviest burden. It is solid gold with two ideas about the same topic and it gets twisted into knots quite often.
Four pieces on three separate chains always intertwined anyway.
At the same time I hide these possessions I spread on my war paint. I quickly discover what to and what not to say. It becomes easier to slip into the crowd when my necklaces are covered and no one gives me a second glance.
But cold metal bumps and burns against my skin.
Eventually I get tired of their twisted, tangled mess and unwind them with a gentle hand and furtive eye. They breathe and move more evenly settled against my chest and somehow compliment the t-shirt or evening gown I am wearing. People sneak glances and whisper behind gloved hands and after a while the look gets to me.
So eventually I tuck them back in again.