The Girls
by Kelli Short Borges

Flora stands at the edge of the desert trail, sweat trickling down her back. Scraping her thick chestnut hair back into a high ponytail, she looks forward, her gaze set in determination. Today is the day—she’s going to do it, what she has thought about for years. She’ll set the girls loose on the trail, and no one is going to stop her. 

Glancing right and then left, seeing no one, Flora steps back under the shade of a tree. She takes a deep breath, shoring up her confidence. Before she can change her mind, she swiftly pulls off her shirt, followed by a hot pink sports bra. Flora glances down. Her nipples stare up in return, their brown rims blending into generous breasts which now sway freely, happily, approving of their sudden and surprising release.  

Flora pushes her shoulders back and steps onto the trail, taking a quick selfie to document the moment, chest thrust proudly forward. Later, she will post it on social media, and she doesn’t give a damn who sees it. 

As she begins hiking, Flora feels the sun’s warmth on her chest. Breathing in, she notices the sharp, smoky scent of local creosote lingering. Spring in Phoenix doesn’t get much better than this. Palo Verde trees line the dusty trail, their fragrant, bright golden flowers just beginning to fall, blanketing the normally sparse desert terrain in brilliant color. Set against the distant craggy mountains and budding Saguaros, it’s a stunning view. 

A gentle breeze skims Flora’s upturned face. The freedom is heady. This is it, she thinks, how it feels to be a man in this world.
For years Flora saw men on this very trail, hiking in the sweltering desert heat, bare chests glistening as they made their way up the path unencumbered, without a care. Meanwhile, Flora’s own chest remained tightly bound, suffocating in the gripping spandex of her sports bra, smashed down and hidden away like some shameful secret, as were the chests of every other woman.

And why? Because society said so, that’s why. Society being men, of course. And some of those godly women who dutifully went to church every Sunday, Bibles clutched tightly to their own modest breasts. Afterward, they would sit around gossiping in darkened corners, wiping cookie crumbs off bitter, prim mouths disguised by lipstick and sugar. 

Flora thinks of her own mother, standing aside those very ladies, casting furtive, critical glances at those around her. At Flora herself. Flora, who was never quite right in her mother’s eyes. Too headstrong. Never enough.  

“Flora, brush your hair and go change into something appropriate,” she would say. 

“You’ll never catch a husband looking like a ragamuffin.”

Flora, shoulders hunched in resignation, would spend Sundays sitting on cold, hard benches, the dress she was forced to wear to look feminine (God would approve!) itching until she would wiggle like a caterpillar in her seat, drawing dirty looks. 

The only thing that saved Flora on those days of criticism and judgment was her best friend, Sam. Sitting hip-to-hip on the pew, she and Sam would pass notes under the hidden folds of their dresses, cleverly escaping watchful eyes. Sam would respond to Flora’s scribbled SOS! with a funny picture, a riddle, a poem. Anything to make Flora giggle. To make her smile. 

And then there was her ex, Thomas. They met in youth group when Flora was just seventeen. She liked the way Thomas had looked at her back then, his large, dark brown eyes sweeping the room, finally settling on Flora, the approval within his gaze so different from the cold, captious stare of her mother. Flora, peeking shyly out at him from beneath a fringe of heavy bangs, felt something deep within her belly twist pleasantly. Oh, she had thought. And that had been that. 

They dated for ages afterward, the warm look in Thomas’s eyes cooling a bit more year after year, until, finally, his gaze was glacial, capable of freezing Flora in her tracks. His touch, once soft and gentle, in the end had been rough, controlling. She remembers his eyes slowly trailing her body every time she left the house, an ugly scowl spreading across his face when he disproved of something she wore. 

“You look like a whore,” he would say, then yank her back to their bedroom where he would push her toward the closet, force her to change into something respectful. Something nice women should wear.

 Flora is done with being nice. Finally, long overdue, that very last day, the day she left for good, something inside of her snapped. She had pushed back, refused his demands. 

“You’ll regret this, Flora,” Thomas spat, lips pressed together, shirt buttoned up so tight his sweaty, reddened neck bulged at the strain. He grabbed her arm. She could still make out the last faded remnants of the mottled eggplant-purple bruise. Never again, she thinks. 

Suddenly, Flora hears voices echoing down the trail. Looking up, she sees a family approaching–a mother and two ruddy faced college-aged boys headed the opposite direction. The boys openly gape, blue eyes wide as saucers, blinking in gleeful surprise as they take in Flora’s bare chest. Snickering now, elbowing each other sharply, they’re immediately hushed by their mother, who eyes Flora with palpable disdain as they pass. 

Flora looks away, cheeks flushed, then closes her eyes, a snapshot of the other woman’s sharp judgment seared in her mind, like the judgment of so many others. 

Flora, pushing back against the familiar pull of shame, feels the burn of anger surface, the rebellion that has been building within her leading up to this moment. 

Charging defiantly up the trail now, she feels a steely resolve cement itself firmly within. Finally, approaching the trail’s summit, she turns a sharp corner, almost colliding with a (shirtless) man heading down. Apologizing, she steps to the side to give the man berth.
Eyes widening, the man initially shifts away, taken off guard. Then, checking to see that they are alone, he recalculates and steps closer. A greasy leer spreads across his features, replacing his initial surprise. Flora does a rapid mental calculation, the one all women do when they sense danger. He’s tall, at least six feet to Flora’s five-foot-four. Around her age, thirty or so. Heavily muscular, his broad, slab-like shoulders hulk above bulging blue-veined biceps, an ode to the hours he obviously spends at the gym pumping iron.

“Well, hello, beautiful,” he says, eyes super-glued to Flora’s chest.
His words, though themselves not menacing, are betrayed by his body, which is shifting 

ever so slightly closer, close enough for Flora to catch the nauseating scent of cheap aftershave. Flora steps back, away, heart hammering wildly, a cold sweat now beading her forehead.

She fights the primitive instinct to run. Gathering courage, she reminds herself she’s prepared. She has, after all, thought about the possibility of this, the probability of this. 

“She was asking for trouble,” everyone will say if something happens to Flora, as they had always and forever said when a woman is perceived to have put herself in danger. Never mind that Flora is simply enjoying a pleasure that any man on the planet is allowed and wouldn’t think twice about. 

“She’s a woman, what does she expect when she acts like that?” She can almost hear the church ladies whisper in that dusty corner, heads bent together as if in prayer. 

“Men just can’t help themselves, it’s in their nature,” her mother would agree, then shake her tightly permed head, just sprayed with another shellacking of noxious-smelling Aqua Net.

Flora is tired of it. Tired of it all. Her mother, Thomas, the church ladies. Their judgment, their control. The double standards. 

Back in the moment, pulse quickening, adrenaline coursing through her like an electric wire, she rapidly shifts away from the man on the path, who’s now trying to block her way, thick, beefy hands reaching out to grab her.  

Jetting her body sideways, she shows the man what he hasn’t yet spotted. He’s been so busy staring at her chest (Neanderthal-ish brain his master), he doesn’t notice the stun gun strapped to her waist, which she’s practiced using in her new self-defense class. 

She does so now, taking him by surprise. Shocked, he stumbles backward, collapses over a dusty rock and lands off the trail on top of a bright purple prickly pear. Its sharp, spiny thorns pierce his skin, punishing him with dozens of stinging needles. He screams, face turning crimson with pain, and now, finally, fear. Brow raised high, panicked eyes blinking in alarm, he finally stands, staggering, and backs away. 

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters. 

Scurrying quickly in the opposite direction, he turns the corner and disappears. 

Flora re-holsters the stun gun with trembling fingers, emotions a jumbled swirl—the adrenalized remnants of fear, anger, and relief, rapidly followed by the grit of renewed determination. 

She finishes her hike, humming Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” all the way back to the car, where a single rangy-looking coyote lurks in the otherwise empty parking lot, beady eyes watching her. Just try it, Flora thinks, then stomps her foot loudly at the coyote. Ears back, whimpering, he scampers away. 

Back home, Flora pours herself a large glass of Pinot, lifts it high in toast of the day (her solo roommate, Clyde the cat, eyeing her with feline approval), then uploads the picture she took trailside onto her social media page. 

The caption reads #TopFree, #EqualRightsEqualHikes and #WhyNotUs.
Friends…it’s time for a hiking revolution, she writes.

Men enjoy our Arizona trails without a shirt or suffocating sports bra, why not us? 

Hiking bare-chested on public trails is considered indecent exposure in Arizona, a Class 1 misdemeanor, but only for women. 

Ladies, it’s time to promote equality in the Arizona heat. Let’s push back against archaic laws! Please join me tomorrow at Saguaro Canyon trailhead at 7 a.m, let’s go #TopFree! 

Pressing “post” now, Flora sits back, watches the likes and hearts instantly pop up on her page. A few angry faces follow, along with an explosion of comments.

 Go girl!!

 WHY R U doing this??

 Seriously? 

 Yes…let them breathe!

 C U there!

 These are family trails, Flora…

Flora feels a rush of exhilaration (she’s really doing this!), along with irritation and disappointment at the few she knows who expressed anger or disapproval, the odd blend of emotion creating a twisted, slightly sick feeling within. It’s the same feeling she had as a kid at the state fair, riding a rollercoaster for the first time with Sam.
Flora remembers closing her eyes, a furnace-like gust of hot wind blasting her face as the coaster gained speed, the wafting smell of fried pickles and funnel cake making her nauseous. She and Sam squealed, damp hands gripped together, screaming in excitement and terror until, finally, abruptly, it was over. Stumbling off the ride, Flora had promptly thrown up all over Sam’s new Chuck Taylors. Sam, who brushed off Flora’s apologies, helped her to the restroom, made her laugh. Just as she always had on those long, dreary Sundays. 

How Flora misses Sam. Misses her wild black curls and impish smile. High-spirited and opinionated, Sam had always been solid. Strong. They remained close until Flora met Thomas. He had felt threatened, wanted Flora all to himself, and little by little he succeeded. Now, their friendship was as faded as the picture Flora still has of the two of them at the fair so long ago, sporting cherry Icee-stained smiles, eyes squinting against a sun as bright as their hopes.   

Over those years, the years of losing Sam, Flora had lost even more of herself. Her independence, her fierceness, her desires. All of the things that made Flora, Flora. Until today. Today, she had begun to take herself back. 

She would give anything to have her best friend here beside her, to feel Sam’s arm linked with hers, the two of them clinking glasses, laughing until they cried. To feel the synergy, the strength, she had always felt when they were together. The way it used to be.  

That night, snuggled under the covers next to Clyde, Flora checks her social media page again and again, looking to see if Sam has seen her post, if she’s responded. Nothing.

Hesitating, Flora reaches for her phone. Finds Sam’s number. Fingers trembling, she begins to text her friend. There’s so much to say. If she reaches out, says hello, will she answer? Will she, can she, ever forgive Flora? 

Finally, as her eyelids grow heavy and her thoughts soften and blur, fueled by wine and longing, Flora texts Sam, Please call. Then, their secret code, SOS! 

The following morning, Flora pulls her dusty jeep into the parking lot near Saguaro Canyon Trail bright and early. She rolls her windows down and looks up at the morning sky, notices dark clouds gathering like fresh bruises, the damp scent of petrichor a prophet. Rain. Nerves as unsettled as the weather, she gnaws her lower lip with her teeth, tastes the metallic tang of blood.

The night before, her social media page exploded. Dozens of friends (and some not so friendly acquaintances), had weighed in on Flora’s post, the responses gathering steam and momentum until the post seemed to compound upon itself like interest in a well-vested stock account. Although some comments were supportive, many had expressed disapproval, even disgust. Would this scare off anyone who might actually show today? 

The only person it seemed hadn’t seen the post (or, worse, had, and ignored it), was Sam. Flora thinks about the text she sent Sam last night. This morning, heart thumping loudly, she had grabbed her phone the minute she woke up, desperately hoping for a response. Something. Anything. A lone picture of Clyde, looking smug, stared up at her from the screen.  

It is now quarter past seven, and Flora stands in the parking lot, at the base of the canyon. She has never felt so distant from everyone, everything. Yesterday, she had finally begun to realize her own strength. Exposing herself physically, though, had been far easier than exposing her vulnerability, letting others know that she needed them, too. She has been rejected by the very women she trusts the most. 

She looks up, sees an increasingly ominous sky. In the distance she hears the deep and angry rumble of thunder. Fists balled at her sides, she stares up at the staggeringly high canyon walls. 

“Hello??” she calls, and waits.

 Waits for another voice, any voice, to stand with her. To stand beside her. Flora’s own voice, hollow and lonely, echoes back. No one is coming. 

Shoulders slumped, she slowly turns and makes her way back to her jeep. Opening the door, Flora gets in and sits, staring at the canyon. She feels a deep sadness, the sharp tug of defeat. She can’t—no, doesn’t want—to do this alone. 

Surrendering to the thought, she feels the strength of it like an undertow, pulling her down, away from the surface. Away from light and clarity and hope. Away from a new beginning.  

   Just as she’s about to pull away, she hears the hum of a car’s engine. Looking in the rear view, Flora sees an ancient green coupe turn the corner into the lot, spewing a fan of dust, horn beeping in cheery greeting. Flora blinks, rubs her eyes, looks again. Sam.  

Sam flashes a toothy smile, then parks and springs from her car, as tightly wound and energetic as the black curls that stick out stubbornly from underneath her baseball cap, rebellious and untamed. She holds a daypack with a sign attached, #EqualRightsEqualHikes painted in bright colors. In support of women. In support of Flora. 

Flora pulls her key from the ignition. Stepping out of her car on trembling legs, she stands face-to-face with Sam. 

“Sam, I…” She takes a breath, closes her eyes. Salty tears run down her cheeks. 

Sam steps forward, arms wide, then envelops her in a hug that says all that words cannot say. I forgive you. I love you. I’m here. 

As they embrace, the years of separation, the space between them, closes. Closes as if not a day has gone by since they sat on that church pew, the bindings of friendship and love their anchor in a critical, confusing world.  

“Sam, I’m so sorry. I’ve missed you. I don’t know what to say.” 

Sam pulls back. Her eyes meet Flora’s. 

“Flora. It’s me. You’re forgiven. Now, let’s go for a hike!”

Sam takes Flora’s hand, turning to wave as two more cars slowly make their way around the corner and into the lot. Flora watches her friends, friends she hasn’t seen in years, park, then bound toward her, some already top-free, some donning #EqualRightsEqualHikes! signs. A rush of gratitude moves through her. She takes in those who have come to support her—Sam’s mother Ruby, Sarah, her next-door neighbor, and even her college roommate Tami, her sleek blonde bob swinging as she squeezes Flora in greeting. 

“I don’t know how to thank you all,” says Flora.
“Take…it…off!” they chant, cheering as she removes her bra with a flourish. Then, Flora leading the way, they head up the trail, lifting their faces to the first rays of sun, now reaching through parting clouds. Their voices rise higher and higher, echoing off the canyon walls.

Kelli Short Borges is a writer of essays, short stories and flash fiction. A former reading specialist in the Arizona public school system, Kelli is a life-long reading enthusiast. She also enjoys hiking the Arizona foothills, photography, and traveling the world in search of adventure. Her work has been published or is forthcoming at Across the Margin, The Tahoma Literary Review, The Sunlight Press, MoonPark Review, and The Dribble Drabble Review, amongst other publications. You can connect with her on Twitter @KelliBorges2.