Finest display of current feminism – 6 millionaires shoot for the stars under the guidance of Bezos

By - Shamaim Noor.

Somewhere in a cramped apartment sits a woman. Sun streams through the lone kitchen, creating a searing spotlight of the haphazard, eternally rasping table. Crumpled, excruciatingly white sheets of paper lay scattered on the dilapidated vinyl. Sighs echo around them, ghosts of the fretfulness warbling around the home. Calloused hands shuffle through the documents, trembling with enervation and dread. Knuckles bleach white, paper after paper is scanned with smarting eyes. A familiar warmth settles on her back. No, it is not the sun – that lost its homeliness as soon as it joined the incessant ways to minimise the bills. No, it is in fact an acquainted hand. Cracked palms run up and down her back, attempting to sooth whilst relentless tremors staccato. She looks up at him, tightness injected like Botox in her tremulous smile. Unspoken words pass rapidly between their eyes. Anxieties hidden under a gossamer veil jostle through. He sits on the perpetually unsteady chair at her side.

‘Don’t worry yourself’ he placates. As her mouth opens, prepared qualms ready to spew as word-vomit, he cuts her off. ‘You’ve made enough for the rent and utilities; I can cover the rest’.

‘How?’ her dubious, quaking voice queries.

‘I’ll swap out the rash ointment for name brand. Oh, and I’ve sold the gold cufflinks dad gave me. Also, I’ll pick up some shifts at my friends work – don’t worry, I’ll organise someone to come over during that. If we put the rest of the expenses – including my medication - onto the emergency credit card, we can make it work’.

Her jaw works back and forth as hot tears torrent down her burning cheeks. She simply nods her head as he pulls her into an embrace, murmuring words of comfort neither of them is youthful enough to believe in anymore.

As her tears develop into soft cries, a pitiful wailing begins from the bedroom. The baby’s shrieks reverberate against the desolate walls, conducting a hauntingly sombre melody. No concern resonated from the neighbouring residents. They are all too familiar with this ballad.

As this symphony reached a crescendo, across the country a thunderous roar could be heard. Six women, donning six-figure suits and crisp blowouts, exclaimed in delight as they hurtled away from the Earth. Applause from their comrades rung clearly like symbols clashing. As they returned, they thanked Mr Bezos, the conductor of this feat. Their tumbling gratitude and appraisals harmonised into a sickly-sweet melody. They harped on; about the empowerment they harnessed as they shuttled in their space uber; their renewed appreciation of the Earth as they emitted metric tons of carbon; the insignificance of the cost – reaching millions – in order to experience space for the 11 minutes. As their tune ascended into falsetto, the clamorous wails of the many was drowned out until it was a hoarse murmur.