On Handmaids

Yesterday, I saw the handmaid.

She is new, and I have seen her, albiet rarely. But this time was different. This time, she was not wearing her hat, or her wings. She was not wearing anything else either, but that was not important at the time. My mind was elsewhere and I hardly noticed.

Once you've seen someone naked, you can never feel the same way about them again. No matter how hard you try, the memory of her skin, of her intense vulnerability, will push your feelings for her anywhere but "ghost". It's worse for handmaids, I find. It's the eyes that do it, I suppose. You can't look into someone's eyes without feeling the same way, especially if you never see the person's face

It's like emotional nudity, in a way.

She has a story, just like I do. I'm not the commander. I'm Fred, the guy who had a crappy Mickey Ds job in college so he could pay for dates with his girlfriend and stayed up all night studying for a psychology final. I hate beets and love quesadillas. I played badminton, once. Never professionally, but for fun. I have a stomach problem when it comes to egg products. I still enjoy playing Scrabble with my wife, just like we used to.

...I think I will ask the handmaid to play scrabble with me. She must find the monthly ritual as unbearable as I do. If she felt like people cared for her, perhaps she would be happier. I shouldn't take what handmaids do for granted. The sacrifice they make is something nobody really appreciates. Maybe I will pretend she is my wife.

And I will call her... Offred. At least, until I learn her real name.