Your writing critiqued
The grey metal lockers of the changing rooms slam with a familiar rhythm.1 Some staff carry the end of work day weariness2 in their shoulders, 3others give a cheery ‘See you tomorrow.’
Never to me.4
If I had an identifier it would be “the quiet dark one”. People tend to be wary of those in my position. My quietness, coupled with being the only woman on the killfloor didn’t encourage small talk or friendship. I didn’t mind. I understood that I was unnatural. The job and my long-standing presence in it were
