She, 5

            She opened the apartment door and walked in. There was a dark greyness surrounding everything and the dreary light through the windows was cold, damp, ill illumination. She entered the bedroom and saw the outline of his body lying on the bed. The drapes were drawn and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust.

            “You look pretty,” he said in a low voice.

            “Thanks,” she said shortly. She walked to the closet and hung her jacket as her heart began to hammer. She could feel the chemicals reacting in her body. Fear, anxiety and sorrow mixed into a confusing mass. She turned to look at him through the darkness.

            “Are we going to talk about this?” he said. His voice was still a low drone. The monotone heightened her emotions. She knew he was wrought and raw on the inside.

            She fumbled with a corner stitch on her blouse and slowly walked to the bed. She sat down at the corner furthest from him, her back to him.

            “What’s happening?” he muttered.

She was quiet for some time and shrugged. “I don’t know,” she matched his low tone.

“I don’t know you anymore. And it is making me crazy. It makes me feel like I don’t know me anymore because when I think about me, I think about you. I think about us.” He stopped and collected himself briefly. “You’ve pulled away from me and everyone else. If you can’t talk to me at least talk to someone.”

“My brother saw shrinks his entire life before he killed himself. For nineteen years. I am not going to a shrink.”

“So you’re just going to hold everything inside and push away everyone?”

“I don’t want to talk about this. Again.”

“We wouldn’t have to talk about it again if you would… could make active steps to fixing it. And it’s only getting worse – that shit at the church, that is the worst I have seen you.”

“I know that,” she snapped. “That is the worst I have seen myself, don’t you think I fucking know that?”

“And you’re okay with that? You’re okay letting that be your worst ‘til you do something else that’s your worst? Over and over?” She remained silent. “It doesn’t make any sense!”

She rose from the bed and walked to the bathroom and slammed the door shut. She blinked heavily, droplets falling from her lashes. He knocked on the door softly.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She closed her eyes and inhaled heavily as more tears escaped her. Sorry. She was sorry. It didn’t make any sense to her either. She carried everything inside of her, hiding away pieces – sometimes forever – and expressing herself untruthfully. It was who she was now. Thinking about a way back to her former self was dizzying and impossible. She was sorry. Yet there he was, apology in hand; anything to pull her back to him.

An inexplicable anger came over her and she pulled the door open. “What are you sorry for?”

“For what I said.”

“But it’s all the truth, isn’t it?” she countered, the boiling inside her rising.

“For how I said it,” he corrected.

“Fuck off,” she said nastily as she pushed past him. She entered the bedroom and reached inside her closet and pulled out her jacket. A piece of paper fell onto the floor and she bent down to pick it up.

“I said I was sorry,” he said as he came up behind her.

“Stop saying sorry.”

“I am fucking sorry!”

She balled her fist painfully and swung at him, hitting him on the chest hard. “STOP!”

The blow didn’t faze him. “I’m sorry that no matter what the fuck I do or say or try or give or accept, you are still hurting. That’s what I’m sorry for.”

She shook her head and pushed him hard as she marched to the door. He followed her and pulled her back by the arm. She flung him off her and looked him in the eye.

“I’m done with you. I want you to get all your shit out of here – out of my fucking life,” she spat.

He looked at her with a dead expression then chuckled.

She spun around and walked out the apartment. She exited her building and walked swiftly to a nearby deli.

“Cigarettes,” she said to the man behind the counter. She put the money on the counter.

“This isn’t money, miss,” the cashier said.

She stared at him blankly as he unfolded the piece of paper slowly. “It’s a business card. See?” He held it to her eye level and she blinked many times until the words came into focus.

It was the card the waitress had given her.

She, 4

            She popped the MDMA just as a popsicle cart rode by. She laughed.

            “Want a lolly with your molly?” She laughed again at her hilarity. She peeled herself off the grass and waved to the popsicle vendor to stop.

            “And what would this beautiful lady like today?” he asked warmly as she walked up to him.

            She looked at the sickly colourful poster on the side of the cart showing the goods available.

            “Fruity and red,” she said. “Please,” she added.

            “You want a Strawberry Fruitsicle,” he said as he took out the popsicle from inside the cart with a flourish.

            She almost rolled her eyes but realised it might make the situation slightly awkward and refrained. Instead she smiled, gave him the money and waved goodbye.

            As she took her place back on the grass, she thought about the sweet nature of the popsicle vendor. Were there really people like that who existed? People who had enough happiness inside them that they could share it with others?

            And had she ever been one of those people?

            No, she decided. It was a ruse, if not intentional.

            She remembered his exaggerated action when taking out her Strawberry Fruitsicle (which was delicious and definitely cancerous) and she shook her head.

            “Silly,” she muttered bitterly. “And stupid.”

            Her phone rang out and she searched through her bag to find it.

            “Hi,” she said.

            “Hey, it’s after ten and you’re not in the office.”

            “Didn’t I ring?” she exonerated in a reverential tone.

            “Where are you?”

            “Sick. I ate steak last night.”

            “What? Steak? What the hell does that have to do with –”

            “I haven’t eaten meat in sixteen years. Do you really want me to come into work today? I will. I’ll just use my paper bin as a vomit bucket. How does that sound?”

            “Well, fine. But you should’ve called. And do not take that tone with me, you work for me and I will not have insub-“

            She hung up and immediately called back. “So sorry, the call dropped or something. Fucky networks. You were saying?”

            “Ah. Well, it doesn’t matter. Is this just a one-day recovery thing? Or are you handing in sick leave?”

            “If I’m not better tomorrow I will call in an airlift to bring me up to your office window so I can personally hand you my sick leave slip.”

            “Do not take that tone with me! I simply meant do you think you will need more time to recover or what?”

            “It’s pretty up in the air right now,” she responded, languishing delicately in the grass. She swallowed a large piece of popsicle and the cold went to her head. She squinted against the pain and then smiled as the jaunty feeling tingled in her body. Hello, molly. “But if you’d like, you can call me every ten minutes from now until tomorrow morning to see my progress.”

            “Look, wise-ass, I could have you fired for this bull-“

            She hung up and waited five seconds, then called back. “So sorry. Fucky networks.”

            “You did that on purpose!” he spat from the other end.

            “So I’ll call you in the morning if I’m not coming in. I won’t call you if I am because that would be idiotic since you’ll see me anyway. Or would you definitely need more confirmation than my physical presence to know I’m coming in?”

            There was a pause where she could imagine his face, red as fuck, his eyes bulging out of sheer rage, wanting to scream into the phone at her for being a sarcastic fucking cunty bitchass bitch with the cockiest dildo up her hairy saggy fat ugly ass.

            “Fine,” he said calmly and hung up.

            She laughed and lay down in the grass, the high washing through her. She laughed again and sprung to her feet. As she walked through the park, her steps felt light. It didn’t feel like she was moving on her own accord but more like floating through the scene. The crisp morning air felt tingly and her hands were clammy. She put them on her cheeks and shuddered. The feeling was electric.

            She approached a wooded area and started to climb the surrounding rocks, heading into the trees. The autumn leaves scattered the floor, making hues of brown, yellow and orange swirl into a bright cacophony for the eyes. She treaded carefully, trying to make as little sound as possible. She searched through the tree trunks, looking for any human movement through the stillness.

            Then, she saw it through the foliage: a man wearing a navy blue windbreaker. She watched as he stood in a small clearing and rubbed his cock through his jeans. She moved closer until she was behind a tree not more than twenty feet away from him. Now she could see another man approaching the clearing. The first man continued to touch himself as the second slowly approached, eyes alert and cautious to the surroundings. He walked up to the first man and, without introduction, fell on his knees and started sniffing the other’s crotch. He moved his hands under the windbreaker and fondled the first’s nipples.

            The navy blue windbreaker rustled almost soundlessly as the man on his knees undid the jeans to expose the other’s hard, purple-pink cock. As the first man put his hand on the second’s head, pushing his face into his ruddy cock, she saw the white gold wedding band on his finger.

            For some reason, this heightened her senses and she put her clammy palm into her undergarments, rubbing her crotch as she watched the blowjob unfold.

            The married man shuddered for a moment as the second fellow’s mouth wound its way up and down, leaving a coat of glistening spit behind. He pushed the second man’s face deeper and let out a moan, broken by soft staccato as he trembled while the second man licked the head of his penis viciously.

            “You like that?” asked the one giving the blowjob, only momentarily, between mouthfuls of dick.

            “Deeper,” said the windbreaker, as he rammed his pelvis hard, over and over. “Fuuuuuck,” he said in a low grunt through supposed teeming pleasure.

            The second stood up and put his moist lips on the first’s. They kissed passionately, tongues wrangling each other as they groped the other’s body haphazardly, almost as if the human form were a mystery. They did this for several minutes in sexual abandon. The windbreaker pulled the other’s hair as he stuck his tongue deep into his mouth, pulling him close and thrusting his hips. His dick remained rock hard, bending and wrinkling against the trousers, staining it with precum.

            She pushed against her clitoris and a solid breath escaped her mouth. She saw the condensation rise in the air around her head as the second man pulled down the other’s jeans fully, turned him around in one quick movement, dropped to his knees and started rimming him. His tongue searched deep into his ass and the windbreaker gasped, the sound echoing around the clearing as he placed his wedding-ringed hand on a nearby tree trunk for support.

            He pushed his ass back to meet his tongue, slowly winding his hips as he gripped one of his ass cheeks and pulled it, opening up wider.

She continued to toy with herself. Her wetness surrounded her fingers and she pushed inside while her thumb flicked at her engorged clit.

            She shifted and stopped suddenly. Both men were looking in her direction and the windbreaker was already pulling up his jeans. She stepped behind the tree in front of her quickly, cursing herself. They had definitely seen her. The adrenaline pitched through her blood at lightening speed, her heart hammering hard as a giggle escaped her lips.

            Without thinking, she ran in the direction she had come, going full throttle through the woods, screaming with laughter. The leaves became a yellow blur she continuously blinked against, her eyes watering from the chilly air.

            She catapulted out of the wooded area and collapsed on a patch of grass nearby, panting hard through huge belly laughs. After some minutes she sat up, feeling the ebbs of molly starting to leave her.

            She walked uptown and stopped in at a diner.

            “Booth. Window,” said the guy in front.

            She complied and sat quietly, looking out the window at passersby. She started counting how many people were smiling. She got up to ten before getting bored and turning her gaze to the white tabletop. It was scratched and stained with years of dirt that had no hope of being wiped away at this point.

            Stains. They stayed no matter how raw you rubbed. Somehow, something sticks and stays, forever.

            Her mind strayed to what she had just done in the park: the molly, hunting through the woods to see and engage in sexual depravity. She rubbed her eyes and sighed as a waitress approached her.

            “Hey,” she said. She had long curly red hair in high pigtails on her head.

            “Hi,” she replied, rubbing her face again. “Coffee, please.”

            “That it?” asked pigtails.

            She nodded in acknowledgment and went back into her thoughts.

            She could so easily detach. She knew how to completely disregard her feelings as a part of herself. They became dust at her will, letting her physical being take over. It was easier than feeling everything else.

            She thought about him and jerked unexpectedly. She breathed in deep, trying to catch herself, the anxiety inside bubbling up. Would he be at home? Would he be packed and ready to leave?

            She breathed in heavily again, holding back the water behind her eyes. Stop, she implored herself, trying to let her eyes and mind wander back to the people on the street. But the restriction inside her did not abate and unexpectedly she let out a sob. She covered her mouth and looked around quickly to see if anyone had noticed.

            The waitress was returning with a tray.

            “Coffee, milk, sugar (white and brown), mug, and some pie,” said the waitress, resting each item on the table in front of her as she listed it off.

            “I didn’t order pie.”

            “You look like you could use some. It’s on us,” said the waitress as she turned to leave.

            “Hey, wait. I really don’t want the pie.”

            The waitress turned to look at her with a pitiful expression.

            “Honey, it’s cut, it’s on a plate, there’s a fork: do the math. What’s biting your ass anyway?”

            She guffawed in sheer shock at the waitress’ question and shook her head. “You can’t speak to me like that.”

            “Why? Because I work here? Think again, sister – you refused the pie. You better trust that my supervisor will be on my side.”

            She surveyed the waitress for a few seconds and then laughed. The waitress cracked a smile and re-approached the table. “You’ll have the pie then?”

            She nodded and picked up the fork.

            “Big city troubles?”

            She stopped chewing and looked at the waitress in her eyes somberly.

            “Yes,” she nodded, her pigtails jumping around with her head, “big city troubles.”

            “I really don’t want to talk or think about it,” she said, eating another piece of pie.

            “Okay. Enjoy the pie.”

            She ate the pie, drank her coffee and left the money on the tabletop. Before she could exit, the waitress came up to her.

            “If you don’t want to think about it, or him, you should come to my friend’s party tonight. She owns a bar.” She slipped a business card into her hand.

            She stared at the waitress in near horror. Think about him? How did she know there was a him?

            “I don’t think…”

            “Trust me, it’s fun,” said the waitress. “Anyway, just a suggestion. I’ll be there around midnight tonight, maybe see you there.”

            She shrugged, deciding she didn’t have the strength, and said, “Maybe,” turned and left the diner. She hailed a cab, put the card into her jacket pocket without looking at it, and hopped in.

She, 3

She looked at the strikingly white porcelain as the water poured over her head. Even over the rush of noise of running water, she could hear him banging around in the kitchen. She heard the clink of a bottle being dropped heavily on wood, she heard him throw cubes of ice into a tumbler. She had to imagine him downing the Scotch; she couldn’t hear that.

Even then, she couldn’t remember him.

Goosebumps erupted on her body but she ignored them and lathered her hair.

She didn’t love him. He deserved it: he loved her, shared with her and gave to her. He thought he understood her but she didn’t understand her; how could he?

As she stepped out the shower she heard a door slam shut.

She walked out the bathroom and looked around the empty living space.

The bottle of Scotch and nearby tumbler gleamed on the kitchen counter in the soft recess lights.

Entering the bedroom, she saw that his suit was strewn on the bed. On the nightstand was a piece of cake on a paper plate. She stared at the scene, puzzled, only remembering the wedding after a few seconds.

She bundled up his suit haphazardly, her towel dropping softly to the floor. She snatched the cake off the nightstand, squashed it into the bundle of fabric in her arms and rushed into the kitchen, bending over double and shoving it violently into the trash under the sink.

As she straightened up, she savagely wiped the tears on her cheeks.

She stood there for some time: naked, shuddering, droplets of water falling from the kinks on her head. She picked up the bottle of Scotch slowly, uncapped it and took a long swig. The sweet bitterness burned her throat and she drank again.

Back in the bedroom, she fell onto the bed. Her head pounded and she had too many overflowing thoughts and no medium of expression.

She retrieved the small container of marijuana in one of her drawers and returned to the bed with her legs folded beneath her. She stuffed the green flakes into her small pipe, lit and took a long and calming pull.

She did it again, many times, until her head felt light and her body buzzed with high.

The headache was gone but now her mind – cloudy – seemed to taunt her with her situation.

He had been with her from the time she was a foreigner in someone else’s country. He had molded her like soft clay, not to his whims, but in the direction of hers. He knew her best and she wanted to escape him worst. The familiarity was stifling; it wasn’t a comfort. He was everywhere in her life as if he demanded the space, he took up her time and efforts in ways that begged so much sacrifice.

She bent her head down to her ankles and tried to sob. Her hand brushed between her legs and the sensation rattled her body. She lay back slowly, rubbing her feet up and down the soft duvet as she continued to palm herself.

Her dark body was one with the darkness inside of her, and with the darkness of the bedroom. She couldn’t see what she was doing to herself. She could only feel.

Her calves tingled and cramped as she slowly rubbed her hidden clitoris, feeling the warmth in her become wet.

She inhaled so deeply that her chest cracked. She haphazardly searched through the dark for the vibrator in her nightstand; she felt for the switch and heard the faint buzz. She licked the tip and put it on her nipple.

“Fuck…” she moaned into the empty darkness as the vibration seeped through the rest of her body, the buzz palpable.

Before she could part her lips with her fingertips, the bedroom door swung open. Light from outside flooded onto her pulsating body. She raised her hand to shield her eyes. She could see his silhouette in the doorframe but could not make out his expression. She heard him laugh sardonically.

“You gotta be fucking kidding.”

“Jesus,” she said exasperatedly, pulling the duvet over her naked body as he turned on the light.

“Really?” he commented, looking at her hands clutching the duvet over her chest. His breaths were short, eyes wide and he was on the verge of screaming. “Like I haven’t fucking seen it all?”

He advanced on her and savagely pulled the duvet. She catapulted forward, her hands still clinging to the downy white. They struggled for some time until he snatched it from her and threw it to the floor.

“Stop it!” she cried as he pushed her back on the bed and put his hand on her pussy.

“Why are you hiding?” he asked through clenched teeth, his fingers pushing into her hard.

“Fucking stop it!” she screamed while kicking him off and pulling her legs to her body, back straight against the headboard.

“How much is too much?” he asked. “For weeks you shut me out, you cancel at the drop of a hat, you never want to have sex – how much do you expect me to fucking take?” He searched her face but she kept her eyes fixed on his chin.

“And the wedding… the fuck were you thinking? Huh? What came over you in the church? Who the fuck were you? In front of eighty fucking guests? In a fucking church?”

She felt a current through her body. She expected that his failure to confront her when she first arrived at the apartment meant that he would comfortably ignore what had happened earlier; the way he comfortably ignored everything else. And she would have let him the way she always did.

But this was the reckoning moment. He was firing his shots right at her, calling her out on the cruel darkness that lived inside.

“Say something.”

She shrugged and he made an aggravated sound and punched the mattress hard. He got to his feet and spat, “Fuck you, then. Fuck your mind-games and fuck you.”

He picked up the duvet and threw it on the bed, switched off the light and slammed the bedroom door shut.

She let out a hard breath and clutched her heart. The darkness was blinding against her eyes, it pressed in overwhelmingly and felt barren. She could feel the beating organ inside her as it graphically pounded. She could feel the pump of blood through it and the rush of life coursing through its core. Pumping life in the dark.

She shifted on the bed and the sudden buzz of the vibrator frightened her and she let out a small cry.

She felt for it on the mattress and turned it off. A chuckle escaped her lips and then tears sprang to her eyes.

She tried to push back the thoughts in her head. Was he still in the apartment? She listened keenly to the deadness and decided he had left.

You can’t run forever, a voice inside lulled.

Couldn’t she? She could so easily detach from moments and herself, as if she had tied her emotions to a helium balloon and let it float away forever. Why couldn’t she do that with love?

This isn’t love, another voice taunted.

She pulled herself off the mattress, turned on the lamp on her nightstand and rolled a joint. As she pulled, she could hear the sizzle of buds burning. She looked over at the nightstand and noticed a clump of whiteness stuck to the top.

Bewildered, she poked her fingers through it and realised it was icing from the wedding cake. She put her finger in her mouth and the sweetness mingled with her smoke-tinged saliva.

It tasted like shit.

Just like everything else in her life tasted like shit. Whether it was the way she had to interact with waiters or smile encouragingly at tourists as they waved annoyingly or entertain his friends even though she hated every one of them more than the last or go to work and entertain her new boss, the grandest dick that ever was, or pretend to be excited every time she saw a baby in a stroller, even if it looked like a swaddled beet with lips, or wear heels to dinner when she really wanted to stay in, watch TV and binge eat a bag of Doritos; everything lately tasted like shit.

Suddenly, there was a jolt in her stomach. She felt a push on her throat and ran to the bathroom, letting the vomit out into the toilet bowl. For a minute, she violently spat up her insides, moaning and gagging with no restraint.

After she rinsed her mouth and face, she stood up straight and looked into the mirror at herself intently. Her dark eyes were watery and red.

She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. That didn’t taste like shit. It tasted like steak.

She, 2

She was running, her hand still in his. He looked back at her and laughed, his brown eyes crinkled, the skin around them creased in endless abandon.

“This is my yoga studio,” she mentioned breathlessly as they careened past the stone building. He backtracked unexpectedly and pulled her with him.

“HEY!” he called up at the dark windows. Passers-by on the sidewalk merely stalked around them, passive aggressively dismissing their existence.

She giggled, “No one’s there, it’s almost midnight.”

“They’re all at the wedding,” he said with a grin.

The wedding.

Her dress had ripped on the ferry ride and he had swiftly fixed it with some kind of boyfriend-cunning that only he possessed.

She touched the rip mindlessly, not even sure it had been there. He had mended it perfectly.

“Are you okay?” he asked, putting his hand over hers. She looked over at him, then at the stone building.

She didn’t know the answer to that question. That question was forbidden; it begged dishonesty and faux self-adulation.

“He fixed my dress,” she said, walking away.

“Your boyfriend?” She nodded. “What happened at the wedding? You said you had a fight.”

She shook her head and cleared her throat. “I said we came to an understanding.”

“Ah, yes. What was the understanding?”

“That I can’t stand being around him.”

“Like… just tonight you can’t stand being around him or it feels like your eye socket is being burned with a lit cigarette when he touches you?”

“The lit cigarette,” she sighed, taking a cigarette from the box he offered her.

“How did he take it?”

She guffawed for a second then shrugged. “I didn’t tell him.”

“I thought you said you both came to an understanding.”

“Well, I came to an understanding then, if you want to get technical.”

“That’s not about being technical, that’s about speaking the truth. The way you say something matters.” He was looking at her as if he was truly seeing her for the first time and he didn’t like what his eyes were being met with.

“Sorry,” she apologised softly. “I suppose I did know that what I meant to say was, ‘I came to an understanding’.”

He sat down on a nearby stoop and took a drag from his cigarette. She sat next to him and did the same.

“Did it hurt?”

“Uh… the rip?” she asked, her hand reaching for the rip in her dress again.

“Coming to that understanding; did it hurt?”

She stopped for a few seconds. She looked off into nothingness, she didn’t breathe, she didn’t move to swipe a stray curl from billowing against her cheek.

Slowly, she began to nod. “But I’ve known for a while. I’ve known, I just haven’t felt it until tonight.”

“Denial,” he said shortly.

She nodded again and whispered, “I suppose so.”

“Come on, we’ll miss it.” He got up, stretched and put one hand in his pocket and the other he put out to help her off the stoop. “You’re hungry, right?”

“Hungry?” she asked. “Not particularly…”

“You drink tea?”

“Not really…”

“What kind of yogi doesn’t drink tea?”

“I’m not really a yogi, per se…”

“Hot chocolate?”

“Diet Coke?” she offered.

“Perfect,” he nodded and pulled her along gently.

They passed a small café on a corner and he ushered her inside. He took her to a booth and she sat down.

“Not that side,” he said solemnly.

“Why? Is this your side?” she teased.

He pulled her up gingerly and sat next to her on the cushy bench-seat.

“Because you have to see the TV,” he explained finally.

She looked up and saw the screen. A sitcom had just started and one of the idiotic, jazzy characters was saying something idiotic and jazzy while the audience laughed with as much energy as a raucous gang of golf spectators.

“This show?”

“I love it,” he said, his eyes on the screen. “I come and watch it every Tuesday. If I can’t make the 9PM show, I come to the midnight rerun.”

She examined his face. It was lit with excitement and he guffawed at a joke. It was actually a good joke, she had to admit, and she laughed as well. He looked at her and nodded. “See? It’s shit-stupid with momentary lapses of brilliance. Sometimes the best art is accidental. It’s not trying to be, it just happens – like a flash of lightning: fleeting and random.

“At least that’s my metaphor for a stupid sitcom.” He snorted softly and turned his attention back to the screen.

“You don’t have a television at home?” she asked.

“I don’t have steak and eggs at home,” he said shortly.

She nodded and they sat looking at the screen for a few minutes.

“Hi,” he said to the waitress who approached them, “we’d like a steak and eggs special – all the trimmings – and… um, a Diet Coke?” He looked to her questioningly. “You sure you don’t want anything else? The steak and eggs are blow-mind, I promise.”

“Just Diet Coke,” she said to the waitress with a smile. “Thanks.”

He shrugged.

“I’m really salivating over that Diet Coke,” he said during a commercial break.

She sipped from her straw and said nonchalantly, “It’s delicious.”

“You’re not anorexic or something, are you?”

She made a face at him to show she was hurt and offended. “You can’t say something like that to me after knowing me for one hour.”

He thought about it and said, “Sorry; that was a dickish thing to say. And we can share anyway.” He touched her shoulder and instinctively she put her hand on his.

“Well?” he asked her, expectantly searching her face.

She chewed a few more times then swallowed and looked at him blankly.

“Holy shit, gimme that fork,” she blurted and stuffed some more meat into her mouth from the plate the waitress had put on the table. He laughed and she laughed and they both laughed.

They laughed for minutes; she couldn’t swallow the food in her mouth so hers was a muffled, odd guffaw that sounded like the coo of a very old pigeon nearing the end of its life.

He put his hand on her lap while he ate.

“You’re left-handed,” she said.

“Yes. You knew that because I’m eating with my left hand?”

“Well, you’re eating well with your left hand,” she reasoned and he gripped her skin softly. She looked at his hand and it became upturned, facing her. He motioned with it for hers and she gave it to him.

“What now?” she asked him.

He shook his head and shoulders all at once. “Got work early in the morning.”

“Where do you live?”

“Around the corner. And you?”

“Uptown,” she said.

“‘Uptown’ is a large place – I hope you don’t get lost.”

Outside the café, they turned to face each other. “Well, goodbye,” she said. “Thanks for the meal.”

“Okay. Thank you.” He smiled and turned, hesitated, then turned back to face her. “Can I say something?” he asked.

She searched his eyes but they were dark. There was nothing to see. “Yeah,” she shrugged.

“You said you came to an understanding today with yourself or within yourself, right? Don’t take that lightly. People live their entire lives not understanding shit – especially themselves. You had an epiphany or a revelation or a bomb-drop moment or something. You know how you feel. It probably hurts and is scary as all fuck, and even then you don’t know what you are going to do. You’re thinking the pit is only going to get deeper before you can even start thinking about climbing out to see the shit all around.

“You don’t love him and that scares you because you believe you should. But you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t have to do anything if it makes you feel like this.”

He touched the side of her head, smiled and walked away.

The cab ride home was cold and bumpy. She stared into nothingness, the sickening truth washing over her. She felt hot, her neck was boiling and the cold wind felt like tiny shards of glass against her exposed skin.

She entered the apartment and stumbled inside, slamming the door behind her.

“I called you, I was freakin’ worried,” came his voice before she saw him. He was a dark shadow, becoming larger, walking to meet her in the dark foyer. “What the fuck happened? One minute we’re at the reception, the next minute you’re getting a ride to the ferry and told David’s son to tell me you were bouncing? He literally came up to me and said, ‘Yo, your girl is bouncing.’”

She looked into his face but there was no light. She reached behind her, feeling around blindly all the while looking at his face.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Finally, her fingers felt the click of the switch and the light illuminated his face.

Brown! she thought. Brown…?

“Please stop staring at me blankly and say something,” he said.

“Brown…” she murmured.

            “What’s brown?” he said and she came out of her thoughts.

            “Your eyes.”

“So are yours,” he spat.

“So were his…”

He shook his head in misunderstanding and searched her face desperately, his eyes darting from her lips to her eyes to her chin. He rubbed his face tiredly and pushed his hair back.

“His?” he asked.

She, 1

            She loved dancing. It was like life, creativity, art and courage coursing out your body in tangible movement, she thought. It made her believe. In nothing, in everything, in herself – it set her free.

            She moved her hips in a slow, winding motion, hypnotically swaying her forearms and bending her knees. She was slightly aware that most eyes on the floor were on her slithering body. More than the attention, the heat drove her. Her body felt like it was combusting and beads of sweat boiled out of her brown skin.

            The shiny beads looked like caramel on her skin and she swiftly swiped her fingers at her forehead and pushed back her curls. In the soft light, with her face upturned, her eyes a mere glimmer, her arms pulled over her head and her hip pushed out in the opposite direction as the rest of her, she could be anything in the world.

            She was heartbroken. As the sweat poured, she felt her heart palpitating and was especially aware of an acute pain with each beat. It ran down her ribcage, gripped her stomach and ran right back up to the beating culprit. Each time, it felt as if her heart would burst.

            Abruptly, she dropped her hands and walked to the bar. As she sipped, she breathed, swallowed, breathed, breathed, breathed. She closed her eyes momentarily and blinked hard.

            She thought about him. She almost couldn’t remember what he looked like. She looked at the clock on her phone – it had been four hours ago; she had last seen him four hours ago. She couldn’t remember what his eyes looked like.

            “What you drinking?” someone nearby asked.

            She looked at the speaker and replied, “Water.” She shook her cup at him.

            “Nice. You look fancy.” He eyed her dress and looked into her eyes questioningly.

            “I was at a wedding,” she said.

            “Not your own, I hope? I don’t see a groom.”

            “My boyfriend’s best friend,”

            “Where’s your boyfriend?”

            “What?” she feigned, pretending not to hear. She needed a second to think. What the fuck does he look like?!

            “Where’s your boyfriend?” he repeated, leaning in closer to her.

            “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “Maybe at his apartment.”

            “You came here with friends?” he asked, all the while his eyes looking into hers.

            She looked down at her cup of water and realised her heart had stopped beating erratically. She breathed in painlessly. “I’m here alone,” she shrugged.

            “You had a fight with your boy?”

            She laughed and fluffed her hair, which is what she did when she was nervous and still trying to be sexy. She called it the Sexy Nervous. “In a manner of speaking… I suppose we came to an understanding.” She sipped from her cup.

            He nodded although he didn’t look like he understood one bit. He smiled and picked up his drink.

            “Leaving?” she asked.

            He leaned in to her and said in her ear, “Cigarette.”

            “May I have one?”

            He smiled again and nodded.

            They exited the bar and he presented her his cigarette box. “Those are my cigarettes,” she said, taking one and lighting it.

            “No, they’re my cigarettes,” he said squarely.

            She blew out a huge cloud and laughed. “Okay.”

            They both spoke in unison:

            “Did you have fun at the wedding?”

            “What’s your t-shirt mean?”

            He looked down at his t-shirt as if he didn’t know he was wearing one. “'Thug life' in French,” he said shortly.

            She raised an eyebrow and smirked at him “'Thug life'? Really?”

            “It’s a conversation piece,” he offered.

            She took a long drag then smiled into his eyes.

            They were brown. Just brown – nothing distinct, no gleam or sparkle, no life zinging behind the pupils, not a fleck of brightness or imperfection that could be spun into some kind of odd beauty.

            His dark eyes searched hers and she couldn’t help the smile gushing onto her lips.

            “Wanna see something?”

            “Depends,” she mumbled, eyeing him searchingly. Up until now they hadn’t touched. He slowly leaned against the wall they were standing on and his shoulder grazed her arm.

            “Well, I gave you a cigarette so you owe me,” he compromised.

            She looked at him, gauging his words. Were they sexual? Of course they were – he was a man, she was a woman; the parts fit. But more than sexual, they lulled.

            “Okay, what is it?”

            “You’ll have to wait and see,” he responded, throwing his cigarette butt into the street and motioning for her to follow him.

            She looked at his retreating back for a few seconds until he turned to look at her quizzically. She took one last drag, threw the rest of her cigarette to the sidewalk and walked toward him.

            “I don’t like surprises,” she stated when she was next to him.

            “Didn’t say it was a surprise.” He smiled at her mischievously as they began to walk.

            “Then what is it?” she asked again.

            “You’ll see.”

            “Why can’t you tell me?”

            He examined her and put his hands into his jeans pockets. “Why must you know?”

            “Because,” she replied simply.

            “You don’t like giving up control,” he stated.

            “Is that a bad thing?”

            “Is it such a good thing?”

            She stopped walking and turned to face him. He did the same and stared at her waiting for an answer.

            She looked around the busy avenue and then back at him. She blinked, trying to remember. Remember his eyes, she scolded herself. They’re…

            Green? Blue?

            “Brown…” she murmured.

            “What’s brown?” he said and she came out of her thoughts.

            “Your eyes.”

            “So are yours.” He held out his hand and she only hesitated for a moment before putting hers inside his.

“Let’s go,” he said, pulling her into the night.

           

ebony

skin like molasses,
smooth, curling, drenched
with the whitest teeth and beautiful urban gorg
and hair that kinks outward as if reaching for the unseen

proud, beautiful, strong
own it.
you are the last one
the last beauty to exist

the truth in your skin reveals a million layers:
hurt, beauty, angst, anger
but what is the use
you are excused.

privilege, disregard and a willingness to be
to survive and paint on
to swish your colours around,
make the world see that you are more than you are

you are the one,
the great beauty,
the only thing worthy,
a fool's heart's thievery.
ebony.

the long road.

i'd been waiting to meet him for months. i'd added him while trolling random guys on facebook. creepy, yes, but he had one if those super-watt smiles that makes you want to feel that happiness.

we exchanged a couple of messages but he was never very forthcoming to conversation and i figured he wasn't interested in me. why would he be? he was perfect and i was a stalker who messaged him on facebook about some arbitrary topic to make the awkward opening only slightly less awkward. he had tons of friends, he was active and glowing and i was stuck somewhere between heartbroken and heartstrong. a real catch.

eventually i gave up and stopped messaging him, i deleted him from facebook after adding him aggressively because i had already embarrassed myself enough. my jaded energy rubbed off on everything i was part of. i was low and scared and unsure and markedly unhappy about every romantic piece of shattered glass in my life.

this year we started speaking again. i messaged, of course, but i couldn't help it. i was scrolling through my whatsapp contacts and there he was. smile and all. we would exchange occasional "heys", sometimes i would message and receive no reply which i began to understand was not an attack on me but simply his busy life. cool.

we stopped talking for a bit again. occasionally i would say hi and he would tell me he was horny or masturbating. i didn't really know how to take those messages. as poignant as my sexual past is (that may be an odd adjective but it has been... poignant), sexually aggressive and straightforward messages aren't my forte. i wield my sexual energy through physical interaction - it's stronger and more authentic that way. sending a dick pic really doesn't get my juices bubbling. whenever he would message in this manner, i would laugh it off and nothing more. the conversation would die until the next awkward hello.

once i asked if he would ever be interested in meeting. we both go to the same university so meeting would not be a problem. he informed me that he was busy with school and that if we ever met it would have to be on his terms and i couldn't rush it. those were his words: his terms. i assumed he meant he wanted absolute control of the situation and didn't want to be pressured. every subsequent message about meeting would either go unanswered or ignored completely - why can't i read "the signs"? because my quest for this love-construct i have created in my head outweighs the signs.

this week i messaged him early in the morning. "jocking" was his response when i asked what he was up to. "jocking" is colloquial for masturbating. i replied, "show me." on came a sleuth of photographs of his erection from various angles. suffice to say, i was instantly drawn in. the conversation meandered along, until he asked my sexual position - a question i abhor over a textual conversation. i answered "vers" but with a disclaimer: that sexual chemistry wasn't something to be decided over a whatsapp conversation.

"i'm top," he appropriated. so there it was - no questions, this was who he was. this was a sexual conversation. this was not about how cute my profile picture looked or how well-spoken i was. it wasn't about my intellectual ability or stimulating conversation. it was about my anus.

"would you let me fuck you?"

"yes," i said - unsure of myself. did i enjoy bottoming? certainly not in a random hookup instance. impersonal, in agony and detached is how i feel if ever getting fucked by a complete stranger. it isn't my sexual caviar. but his smile, the 3083498 penis shots he had sent and the fact that i had been trying to meet this boy in the flesh for a long time overrode the facts that i knew within myself. i put aside who i am and what i know of me for him.

he was a horny fucker that morning and thus he said we could meet later that evening. i was excited. very excited. but i was excited because i wanted to meet a beautiful guy who i could connect with; a guy who would want to hold my hand while i put my head in the nook of his neck while we spoke about last night's episode. the purpose of this meeting was thoroughly sex, though, as put forward by him. he even asked that i bring condoms. but this is where my mind plays the trick: i cannot disengage between what i want and the actual reality of what someone is requesting of me. in actuality, i probably fall too easily, love too much and have a massive amount of hope that is truly saddening, threatening and scary.

throughout the day i messaged him and asked if we would still meet. "yeah, most likely." most likely. the two words that kept me going through that tuesday - even in that instance "most likely" was a shining beacon to me, when in reality it was the invalidation of my emotions. it was not a definite answer, it was not a "yes, i want to meet you and can't wait." it was a consolation, it was a maybe i can, maybe i can't - you're just going to have to wait see if i'm still horny enough to be tantalised by the thought of meeting you to stick my penis inside you. i was the crack addict and the prospect of meeting a guy that seemed sexually appealing and also vaguely sweet was rock. and i was ready to inhale.

we met in the darkness an hour after we had planned. he saw me coming and walked over. "james?" he asked although it was obvious i was james. i was nervous and desperate: i oozed it; i smiled at him, i engaged him, i simultaneously wanted to die and rise. we walked for a bit until deciding to sit in a dark park area on campus. we spoke for some time, nice conversation really about many things. were we forging a connection or was this polite preamble? eventually we went off in search of some adventurous space to fuck.

polite preamble, it was.

we found a spot and started to kiss. it was nice. he is slightly taller than me, the perfect height for intimate kissing, where you can lean your bodies together and feel your heartbeats as if they are colliding in the same space. things got heated and then i lied: i said i didn't have a condom. he wanted to fuck anyway.

"that's irresponsible," was my stance. the real irresponsibility was lying about not having a condom, not being honest about why i didn't want to have sex, giving in completely to my physical ethos and sucking his cock the first ever time meeting him. so, there i was: a hypocrite, a liar and completely emotionally dressed up, pretending to be someone i wasn't and acting like i wanted things without being specific about the context in which i needed them.

"you know, when someone sticks their cock in my ass i usually prefer that i be in love with them." why couldn't i say that? why couldn't i be honest? was i that hyper-aware of his feelings? too accommodating to the stranger i met who would fuck me without a condom because he was so involved in his own visceral experience to care about every other conjecture?

yes, it was the first time we had met but did that mean that my wants and needs were any less than it would be if it was the fifteenth time we had met? no.

honesty is like the trap door you so desperately want to peer through but are too nervous or incomplete to be able to fully accept what it could reveal when opened. it's there - present, abrupt, nagging - but it's shunned. don't be too honest upfront, don't lay all your cards on the table, play the game, don't say i love you first, don't let yourself feel more than the other person, don't tell him that or he will freak out.

where did all this advice come from? and who thinks being this repressed about your emotional necessities is healthy to anyone? holding back isn't going to hurt the guy who "most likely" would see me at 7pm which turned into 8. it isn't going to exonerate him, or fulfill him, or make him feel satisfied that he was at least the person he knew he was. it hurts me - the one who knows that the experience i want is not the one being experienced.

i am so far away from the person i think i am. my mind and actions don't work in tandem and i am probably self-destructive to a tee. and so the long road awaits, the one where i walk and "find myself", and get to some place "within me" - some dodgy, corny hogwash. at the core, the reality is i need to start caring as much about myself as i care about the projection of myself.

and i need to be enough.

The Game Changed in Venezuela Last Night – and the International Media Is Asleep At the Switch

Francisco Toro / 8 hours ago

San Cristobal on Tuesday night

Dear International Editor:
Listen and understand. The game changed in Venezuela last night. What had been a slow-motion unravelling that had stretched out over many years went kinetic all of a sudden.
What we have this morning is no longer the Venezuela story you thought you understood.
Throughout last night, panicked people told their stories of state-sponsored paramilitaries on motorcycles roaming middle class neighborhoods, shooting at people and  storming into apartment buildings, shooting at anyone who seemed like he might be protesting. People continue to be arrested merely for protesting, and a long established local Human Rights NGO makes an urgent plea for an investigation into widespread reports of torture of detainees. There are now dozens of serious human right abuses: National Guardsmen shooting tear gas canisters directly into residential buildings. We have videos of soldiers shooting civilians on the street. And that’s just what came out in real time, over Twitter and YouTube, before any real investigation is carried out. Online media is next, a city of 645,000 inhabitants has been taken off the internet amid mounting repression, and this blog itself has been the object of a Facebook “block” campaign.
What we saw were not “street clashes”, what we saw is a state-hatched offensive to suppress and terrorize its opponents.
After the major crackdown on the streets of major (and minor) Venezuelan cities last night, I expected some kind of response in the major international news outlets this morning. I understand that with an even bigger and more photogenic freakout ongoing in an even more strategically important country, we weren’t going to be front-page-above-the-fold, but I’m staggered this morning to wake up, scan the press and find…
Nothing.
As of 11 a.m. this morning, the New York Times World Section has…nothing.

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