She reminds Gwendolyn of a child playing dress up in her mother’s closet. In her meekness, the cerulean fabric of her nurse’s uniform swallows her whole. Her relative plainness is shrouded in a coat of blood red lipstick. The color feels out of place on her pale complexion and pinched expression. Her facaded heir of sternness and cool confidence is undermined by the way she holds her arms across her stomach, or chews on the inside of her cheek. Gwendolyn understands her, because she has been her.
She’s certainly gay - of that there is no doubt. She’s not sure how she can be certain, only that it’s fact. Gwendolyn has always dated enough closeted women in her day to know exactly what they look like. Perhaps it’s in the desolatatiom creased into her forehead, or the way she sways back on her heels whenever a man looms too close, or perhaps it’s the way she flicks her gaze towards Gwendolyn - the only other woman in the group - like she’s longing to be seen as anything other than a passive object of desire. Even so, she would sooner take Mildred under her arm, like a bird protecting its hatchling, than she would make a move.
Gwendolyn can feel her brooding glare on her throughout the duration of the governor’s tour, but every time she turns to counter it, Mildred is nowhere to be seen.
It’s when she watches her assert herself over the well-being of the priest that starts to estimate Mildred. Her cheeks grow red when she yells at Betsy to keep her hands off of her, and Gwendolyn understands that it’s because she’s raised her voice in front of the onlookers. She barks out orders like a drill sergeant, and proceeds guide whatever is stuck in his throat spilling onto the carpet.
Governor Wilburn pulls her up by the shoulders when it’s over, shakes her as he spews acelades at her, his foul breath hits her square in the face. She stares at him in a daze, like a ragdoll, like she’s not really listening. When he finally let’s go, she’s trembling faintly. People funnel out of the room as Wilburn starts listing commands. Gwendolyn knows she should be in toe with him, but she holds her ground, pen poised on her notepad. Mildred stares at nothing, eyes wide and pale as death. She shakes her head, sucking in a sharp breath through her nose. Her eyes flick to Gwendolyn so fast she almost misses it, and she stalks off.
“Please don’t put your hand on me like that.” The words sound foreign on her after the assertion she had exuded mere moments before. There’s a fortitude to it that moves Gwendolyn more than anything she had shouted, an absolution to her tone which makes her lips part. Mildred doesn’t smile for the camera, opting instead to look through the lense with a thin expression. Gwendolyn stares blatantly, the fingers of her left hand fidgeting with the hem of her jacket. A heavy blush creeps up her neck and swells across her her cheekbones when Mildred meets her gaze. Gwendolyn can’t bring herself to look away, fearful of missing a single moment of her anomalous existence.