You’re one to talk, sorry, but you’re skinny. You wouldn’t understand,” she said.
Her words, casual yet cutting, lingered in the air of the locker room. It didn’t really matter what I was feeling.
She continued to change her clothes freely while I turned around to perform the awkward stunt of switching t-shirts without a bare-bodied intermission. Her words hovered over my head like a judgment passed without trial.
I was skinny, so it didn’t matter. Her assumption was her truth, and my privilege meant that my struggles weren’t really comparable.