004. INCONVENIENT OBSESSIONS.
pain and desire.
Welcome to ISSUE 004: INCONVENIENT OBSESSIONS ❤️🔥
“The things I thought unmeetable–unattainable” writes Claudia Wysocky, “as if from Eden.” Therein lies the theme of this month’s issue: unattainable things and the lengths we’ll go to to attain them. In the short story Hominaticum, Nirris Nagendrarajah writes of a young woman who keeps missing screenings of a film, and is forced to consume it instead through the eyes of a new lover. The young woman longs for “an end to this inconvenient obsession,” as we all do once in the throes of an all-consuming, ill-suited affair. In Vasundhara Singh’s short story, Mango and Jackfruit, a girl decides to marry a jackfruit tree for a day. “Is the jackfruit a good husband?” her friend asks. “Better than most,” she replies. Logan Banush evokes burning bushes and attachment issues in light of new desire with the poem vessel. “Teach your tongue to walk tightrope,” writes Emenel Ohsea in You Have A Gay Accent, a lyric poem touching on efforts to fit in and be heard. Aleena Sharif shares three stunning pieces of art, and Kiran Gill stops by with the ultimate astrological gift guide (as a Gemini, I can confirm that the book suggestion is perfect). “I picked myself up from the ground, wounded and limping,” writes Raina Tucker in Back on the Skinning Rack, “This is my way of saying I love you.”
Dig in.
| co-editor
vessel by Logan Banush [Poetry]
Mango and Jackfruit by Vasundhara Singh [Fiction]
You Have A Gay Accent by Emenel Ohsea [Poetry]
sun moon rising; no longer available and divinely protected by Aleena Sharif [Visual Art]
‘Tis the Season: An Astro Gift Guide for the Bookish by Kiran Gill [Culture]
Foolish Understanding and Close To Me by Claudia Wysocky [Poetry]
Hominaticum by Nirris Nagendrarajah [Fiction]
Back on the Skinning Rack and Hangover by Raina Tucker [Poetry]
vessel by Logan Banush | Instagram
sorry about me, forgive my ill temper
raised with bloody ankles,
dogs boundin' at feet.
i learned to run fast, hide my tremor,
to find a god in a truck backseat.
dyke cuts, last names on walls
feelin' nervous headed to st. paul's,
i weren't taught much, burnin' bushes maybe
lyin' christian since i were a baby
clutching a star, feel the imprint
hoping the girl 'cross from you gets the hint
doorframe prayer, mispronouncing bethlehem
english end of native table the subtle condemn
attachment issues, candles burned low
takin' the name of a woman you don't know
breakfast dart, necklace tucked in,
feelin' deep connection to miss anne boleyn
disco on the altar, arms crossed in lap
leather jacket pocket nun watching your back,
knuckles bruised, watching idols become saints
bloodshot eyes averting seein' jesus restraints
tank full, countin' mailboxes out
somethin' still familiar about this lonely route,
bronzed bird headstone, lady devout,
head on my shoulder fillin' with doubt
dog on my heels, head held high
feelin' of her hand still on my thigh,
whatever this is, whatever christ may be,
i'm gonna look for it while she's with me.
Mango and Jackfruit by Vasundhara Singh
The girl who catches seven mangoes in her jute basket will wed a mustachioed husband whose government job salary will be enough to keep her happy and fed for the rest of her days. That’s what Jamini dreams of, stooped under the canopy of a mango tree in Kaka’s bagecha. Her crusty eyes blink in the infancy of day and her cracked lips murmur an ancient song written for girls like her. “लड़का नही चाहिए, चाहिए केवल मर्द, जो हो आम जितना मीठा…” I don’t want a boy but a man who is as sweet as a mango. The cric-cric-cric of crickets interrupts her disguised prayer. She gazes up at the canopy, searching for slivers of sun that filter through the diseased leaves. It is the very last day of April, a day for unwed girls to catch mangoes in their jute baskets in hope of finding sweet-as-mango husbands. The sun must not come out today for the mangoes require the push and jolt of strong winds brought on by a sudden summer shower. She is one of two unmarried girls in her village who are over the age of nineteen. The other hopeful, Sukanya, hasn’t arrived yet even though they had agreed to meet at half past seven. A light breeze brushes against her cheeks and she smiles. It is the very last day of April and the sun must rest behind the clouds.
Last week, an astrologer from Lucknow had arrived in Dewasiya to study the hands of Jamini and Sukanya. Jamini received the usual, “She must bathe every morning at 4:08 for the next six months and feed a half-cooked chapati to a black dog every Wednesday.” Jamini’s Amma nodded vigorously and shed a lone tear from her right eye. But Sukanya wasn’t so lucky. The astrologer rubbed his crotch and blurted, “She is Mangalik. Her husband will surely die within a week after the wedding.” Sukanya’s Amma didn’t shed a tear, instead she beat her daughter with a rolling pin until the astrologer assured her of a solution. He took her to the side and whispered in her ear for a minute. Sukanya’s Amma held her daughter by the elbow and dragged her into their thatched cottage. No one except for her Amma knows what the Astrologer said. Two days ago, Jamini met Sukanya while milking Kaka’s buffalo.
“Do you really believe your husband will die?” Jamini asked, pulling at the buffalo’s teet. “Don’t all husbands die sooner than later?” Sukanya reasoned. “My father is dead, so is yours. Our mothers are ghosts who know no better.”
“Do you think you will ever marry?” Jamini asked, breathless from the pulling. “I will marry. Amma won’t let me off so easily but I don’t mind being a widow. Widows don’t have to wear lipstick or mascara.”
“Don’t be an ullu. We will meet at Kaka’s bagecha. Don’t forget to bring your jute basket.” Sukanya made no answer, caressing the buffalo’s leg.
Our mothers are ghosts who know no better.
With no sign of Sukanya, Jamini begins walking up the incline to the part of the bagecha flush with Langda mangos. The sun has respectfully retired for the day but the pale blue sky is stale as the chapati she feeds the black dog. She cranes her neck to admire the plump mangos hanging from the thin branches above. The universe will not grant her a sweet-as-mango husband if she throws pebbles at the mangos to get them to fall into her basket. Shri didi had cheated once and the universe has denied her a husband for the last decade. She thinks of her widowed Amma, leaning against the bed rest, sipping a cup of tea with one hand and massaging her calf muscles with the other. A widow is like a flower without petals, she thinks. The naked flower can exist but has no reason to. She can’t go fetch Sukanya from her place because her Amma might think her Mangalik daughter is no longer eligible to catch mangos. A cat with gray spots strides past her and Jamini feels compelled to follow it. No breeze, no sun.
The cat stops before the jackfruit tree situated at the end of the bagecha. It purrs and dashes away. Jamini stands gaping at the jackfruit tree. Sukanya is tied by a rope to the bark of the tall tree. A smile escapes her wet face. Jamini runs to free her but Sukanya produces a cry as shrill as a hyena’s. “Amma has tied me to the tree for the day,” she explains.
Jamini covers her open mouth with a hand. “But why?”
“The astrologer said this is the only way I can break the curse.”
“Are you hurting?”
“Can you scratch my forehead?”
Jamini scratches her forehead.
“Can you scratch my neck?”
Jamini scratches her neck.
“And my elbow?”
Jamini scratches her elbow.
Sukanya says, “Sit down beside me. I would like some company. Don’t be alarmed. The jackfruit tree is my husband for the day.”
Jamini stares at the assembly of mango trees before them, standing like bored soldiers in a dull army. A breeze sweeps in from behind them, tickling a few mangos out of their insolence. She wishes no longer for the sun or the breeze. Instead, she scratches her scalp and throws the jute
basket to the side. She turns to the jackfruit tree to ask if its temporary wife would like something to eat or drink. Sukanya informs her, “I can’t eat or drink anything for the day. At midnight, I have to drink a glass of full cream milk.”
“Is the jackfruit a good husband?” Jamini asks with a giggle.
“Better than most.”
“If I don’t find a husband, I will have to work as a maid in the town.”
“That’s not so bad,” Sukanya replies. “We will cook Lauki for fat women in the day and in the evening, we will go to the bazaar and share a plate of chole bhature.”
Jamini smiles at her tied-up friend. The breeze catches speed and a mango drops a few feet away from them. Sukanya says, “utho! You need to collect seven mangos.”
Jamini looks at the fallen mango and begins to sing, “लड़का नही चाहिए, चाहिए केवल मर्द, जो हो आम जितना मीठा…”
Sukanya rubs her chin against the rough rope. “Do you know the rest of the song?” she asks. Jamini shakes her head.
Sukanya clears her throat and begins, “लड़का नही चाहिए, चाहिए केवल मर्द, जो हो आम जितना मीठा और कटहल जितना सख़्त…”
I don’t want a boy but a man who is as sweet as a mango and as tough as a jackfruit. “The mangos are falling,” Sukanya shouts.
“Let them fall,” Jamini says.
“Can you scratch my chin?” Sukanya wriggles against the bark of her husband.
You Have A Gay Accent by Emenel Ohsea
I.
a student on the playground; my heterosexual vocal coach
Clear that queer cadence – that cluster of blistering
cold sores,
burn it.
Crisp the lisp off your lips
before it spreads around the classroom.
Every boy is a mocking bird,
tweeting your sissy song.
Teach your tongue to walk tightrope.
Rewire your vocal cords.
Snip the B string.
Yank it out.
Closet that florid guitar,
or else hear the mimics sing.
Over time, Misplace all soft speaking slow with
Rigid rock bluff.
Fishhook the inside of your cheeks
and repeat vowel words in front of the mirror
until they sound like the others.
Don’t you notice Sally, who every day
in art class draws
MOMMYDADDYBABYBABYBA
and gets an A? She sits next to you.
If you speak to her, boys won’t tattle on that kind of talk.
Just subtract all of your s sounds.
Those little mishaps
will not do on this schoolyard.
When you commit to these acts of purification,
you will be cured of all accusations.
II.
Me; The Invader of the Classroom
I hum the song of wardrobe dumb
into our pillow.
The debris of new revelation spot the air like ellipses.
I tap the dots out on the stretch of sheet
between our heaving bodies.
if our silence won't be heard,
at least it can be seen.
Sally pops like bubbles with
fingers still stained with last night's paint.
“What about when you put it inside me?
We were going to make
MOMMYDADDYBABYBABYBA
together!"
I point to my closet door.
Sally breaks the lock with her paint brush and pulls out
wood instruments.
They only have a B cord, my lisp cord,
Tied to a rusty nail at the neck of the guitar.
“What am I to do now? Just pretend
you haven't been planting me on your face,
growing a beard out of me?”
I hum my reply. The octaves climb to
dog whistle blow---
Sally can't hear me now,
and my apology hangs
somewhere on the racks.
sun moon rising by Aleena Sharif | Instagram
no longer available by Aleena Sharif
divinely protected by Aleena Sharif
‘Tis the Season: An Astro Gift Guide for the Bookish by Kiran Gill | YouTube | Substack | Instagram
The holidays are upon us and it's time to make some gifting decisions. I’ve taken the pressure off and paired a dozen books with the twelve signs of the zodiac for a gift guide that is sure to alleviate any anxiety.
Keep reading to discover twelve book pairings, and a few trinkets, for every sign in your life.
♈︎ Aries (March 21 – April 19)
Two Serious Ladies by Jane Bowles: The fiery and bold leaders of the zodiac will appreciate the two leading ladies of Bowles’ only novel. When Mrs. Copperfield jets off to Panama and Miss Goering isolates herself on an island that might be Staten Island, these two women embark on an absurd question for salvation that is equal parts comedic and dark.
Noir Kei Ninomiya Red Metallic Socks / Justine Clenquet Earrings / Mosser Glass Bathing Lady Dish
♉︎ Taurus (April 20 – May 20)
North Woods by Daniel Mason: For this Venus ruled Earth sign, let’s go back to nature with North Woods. In a verdant New England forest, a lone house, is the setting and character of this sweeping novel where creatures and humans reside through the centuries.
Crown Affair Scrunchie No. 001 / Hourglass Glossy Lip Balm / Panache ‘Fork it Over’ Pasta Earrings
♊︎ Gemini (May 21 – June 20)
My Husband by Maud Ventura: Verbose and quick-thinking, a curious Gemini will find the obsessive mind of the synesthete protagonist in My Husband a delight to unravel. Consumed by passion, the unnamed narrator records her husband’s behavior in a private journal and doles out punishment for infractions, benign and malicious.
Papier d'Armenie / Patrick Blush Duo / Chen and Kai Serpent Keychains
♋︎ Cancer (June 21 – July 22)
Western Lane by Chetna Maroo: For the mother of the zodiac, I’d suggest Western Lane. This quiet novel, well crafted and austere, reveals how three sisters and their father adapt to the loss of their matriarch, with squash as an anchor.
Byredo Eyeshadow Palette / Patagonia Spicy White Anchovies / Claus Porto Soap Gift Set
♌︎ Leo (July 23 – August 22)
Exalted by Anna Dorn: The confident, gregarious Leo—adored by all—will gravitate to this romp of a novel where desire, fame, and astrology are intertwined in Los Angeles. We follow Dawn, a middle aged Leo whose life is spiraling and Emily, a depressed Scorpio who makes astrology memes for cash.
Collina Strada Rhinestone Water Bottle / ‘Forget Me Not’ Earrings / Officina Profumo-Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella Acqua Della Regina Scented Wax Tablets
♍︎ Virgo (August 23 – September 22)
The Pumpkin Eater by Penelope Mortimer: As the only sign represented by a human (specifically, a woman), Virgos will be intrigued by Mortimer’s semi-autobiographical story of 1960s London. In the novel, an unnamed woman reveals the fissures of her married life after breaking down in Harrods for an off-kilter exploration of marriage and domesticity.
Jiwinaia Earthling Earrings / Victoria Beckham Beauty Lid Lustre / Mociun Suck it Up Glass Straw
♎︎ Libra (September 23 – October 22)
A Green Equinox by Elizabeth Mavor: This Venus-ruled air sign has an eye for both beauty and love, and will appreciate the flowery language of Mavor’s novel, which was shortlisted for the 1973 Booker Prize. In an idyllic village in England, Hero falls for the wife of her paramour and his mother for an unusual ménage à quatre.
Officine Universelle Buly’s Baume des Muses Lip Balm / Simons Velvet Bow Barrette / Sandy Liang Pointe Studs
♏︎ Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)
My Death by Lisa Tuttle: Ruled by the on-again, off-again entity that is Pluto, brooding Scorpios will find this slim yet trippy novel a mind-bending experience. The narrator, a novelist grieving her husband, finds herself writing the biography of a beguiling elderly woman, a former muse turned author, whose life bears striking similarities to the protagonist’s own.
Muri Lelu Full Flower Ritual Discovery Set / Simone Rocha Pearl Earrings / Le Pen Flex Jewel Set
♐︎ Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)
Ex-Wife by Ursula Parrot: Blessed with a pleasant disposition and a wandering soul, a Sagittarius will revel in the parties, affairs, and speakeasies of this 1929 novel. While donning frocks and matching accessories, our narrator Patricia explores the realities of life in the big city as a newly divorced woman.
Rabanne Mini Eyeshadow Palette / Jacquemus ‘Le Porte Bambino’ AirPods Case / Maison Rapito Small Boobs Big Dreams Tank Top
♑︎ Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)
Happy by Celina Baljeet Basra: The father of the zodiac has the brain of a business mogul. As such, Basra’s novel which explores the harsh realities of migrant workers will appeal to the hardworking goat as our optimistic protagonist Happy leaves the fields of Punjab for Europe.
Hermès Limited Edition Lipstick / Let’s Get Dressed Coloring Book / Boyish Beauty Locked Eyebrow Gel
♒︎ Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)
Y/N by Esther Yi: Innovative and individualistic, an Aquarius will appreciate the unique style of Li’s prose and the surreal experiences of the unnamed narrator who travels from Berlin to Seoul in search of her K-pop love, the reclusive Moon.
Rhode Peptide Lip Treatment / Marvis Aquatic Mint Toothpaste / Numbering Silver #5943 Bracelet
♓︎ Pisces (February 19 – March 20)
Lies and Sorcery by Elsa Morante: The dreamers of the zodiac will find Morante’s tome a compelling exploration of one young woman’s inner and outer life as our narrator Elisa must abandon her fantasy life in order to live a life at the turn of the century.
Osea Vagus Nerve Pillow Mist / Caro Editions Off-White Rosie Hair Clip / Dr. Singha’s Mustard Bath
‘‘Foolish Understanding,, by Claudia Wysocky
The things I thought unmeetable—unattainable—as if from Eden—
Forever luring us with what could never be pure in value as it might have been—
Or so we've all been told:
But why should my heart believe it this for so?
This is what I know!
My dreams!
As clear as the words of my own ears—
Unencumbered by notions of what I was or would be.
Just a child at that point in time;
Unaware of the traps or whims of foolish understanding.
Always trying, always striving.
And now, standing here--where was I standing before?
‘‘Close To Me,, by Claudia Wysocky
It's lovely, the number of times
you look down on me and forget to see,
as if from your corner of the sea—
You could not hear once I begin to plead;
It takes a little time before you come,
To coax me back again up to the dreams.
That there is no moon,
only we are nearer the stars—
I am but asleep. And yet, here we lie: Far apart.
At some point I think to wake myself up,
To make sure I haven't been lying,
And when finally I realize it's true—
I find myself so faint; Holding too tight; Too cold.
I think it may be time for a change after all.
But as things are today—or so it would seem—I'll sleep here alone under the covers awaiting you to come, more closely to me at last...
Hominaticum by Nirris Nagendrarajah | Substack
The southbound train, which, until then, had run its course underground, finally came up for air, and shafts of sunlight intermittently flashed across her face, startling her awake.
Instead of drowsily looking out of the window—at the trees, at the streets, at the apartment buildings in areas she had never had a reason to go to—she lifted up her phone and checked to see if there were any new messages but, as usual, there were only advertisements for movies.
She looked up to see what the other passengers were doing and a chill went up her spine when she saw they were doing the exact same thing as she, and more than that, they seemed to be rapidly typing their replies before the brief window of opportunity closed for the time being.
At times like this she imagined sending a message—but to whom, she hadn’t a clue.
She returned to the screen and scrolled through her list of contacts but none stirred her enough to produce a set of words worth sending and waiting for a response to. None at all.
Then the train was swallowed by the same darkness it had escaped from.
In the mall in the city she went from store to store looking for a garment to pique her interest that could then go through her strict—albeit arbitrary—criteria, pass through it or perish.
Roaming the aisles of bright, loud stores, she wondered how someone could find what they were looking for when they did not know what they were looking for, full of aimless desire.
The object her mind alighted upon that day would be considered a gift from Fate; and eventually she was drawn to a dress that cost a week’s salary but looked like a month’s.
she wondered how someone could find what they were looking for when they did not know what they were looking for, full of aimless desire.
The dress was wrapped in white tissue and stuffed into a glossy bag with silk handles.
Handing her mother’s platinum credit card over, she knew her choice of dress was an homage to a character in a film she’d never seen, not out of disinterest, but because it had never played on the big screen and, out of principle, that is the only way she’s watched movies.
When she exited the store, her phone chimed twice, messages from Otto.
Only recently had she entertained the possibility of him becoming an intimate.
In the city? Free?
Yes. Might leave soon though.
Never mind. Just left.
In another dimension their paths might’ve crossed.
In another dimension she would not feel like she’d lost out on an experience.
She walked off that feeling down Queen, moving among the masses as though she had somewhere to be, someone to see, when, in reality, she was merely redeeming her inadequacies.
Later, at the cinematheque, she read through the catalogue for the current season.
At the end of that week, she learned, there was a screening of the movie in which the dress she’d purchased in homage was featured, and she immediately thought of Otto.
This was all leading up to this, she thought.
Next Saturday: movie in the city and then dinner?
It’s Kevin’s wedding reception. I thought you’re coming.
She felt the weight of the dress, remembered why she was in the city to begin with.
I am. I just bought a dress for it actually. Just forgot what day it was.
Dementia is one of those things that afflicts older people.
She was only a year older than him, but he always found a way to remind her of it, which was one of things she dreaded at first, but now craved to hear: it was a sign of his affection.
If Kevin wasn’t her close friend of twenty years, she might’ve forgone the event.
Solemnly returning to the subway station, bag in hand, she nursed the regret of having to delay her encounter with the film, for another day. She watched a plane land into the woods.
It wasn’t meant to be, she let herself believe. Next time then, surely.
She ended up wearing a dress to the wedding that she’d worn before. She couldn’t bring herself to wear the new one outside of her bedroom. It caused her too much grief.
It didn’t seem to matter what she wore though, for Otto paid more attention to her, always asking her one more question, telling her one last anecdote, clinging to her like spinach on teeth.
The entire time she wished she was at the movies, living another life entirely, a life where she could do only what she wanted, and responsibility had no bearing on the decisions made.
“What are you thinking about,” he asked.
“That movie.”
“It will come back,” he said, sitting down in his chair after requesting a song.
“But I don’t want to wait.”
“You like to wait. That’s all you ever do.”
“I want to not wait for this thing, so that I can wait for the next thing.”
“You have to dance with me for the next song.”
She looked into his brown eyes and tried to envision the rest of her life by his side.
They danced, held hands, lightly touched, high-fived, amicably hugged.
He drove her home and wished her sweet dreams as she exited the car.
She would’ve kissed him, had he not been burping and farting the entire ride.
The following week, still ruminating on the loss of this encounter, she decided to discard the dream, to choose another film to fall in love with, one available that night, accessible to her.
She drove past a few underground parking garages before settling on one with a flat rate.
She braked, cranked open the window and like God in Michelangelo's The Creation of Adam, her index advanced towards the flashing button, and seconds later a stiff ticket emerged.
She slipped the ticket in the sun visor without looking at the text printed on it as the yellow beam ascended. Only at hospitals and airports, she thought. And city buildings.
She drove down three floors, where she was satisfied with the density of cars, enough to make her feel a part of an informal community, but not so few as to make her feel endangered.
She locked the car, climbed up three flights of stairs, careful, when it was evident, to avoid stepping in a puddle of piss, and balefully glanced at the payment kiosk on her way out.
She paid for the ticket in cash, since her mother had taken back her card.
The man who worked the counter had long fingers, and a moustache signifying filth.
“Enjoy the show,” he said, handing over her ticket.
“You too,” she said, taking the ticket, realizing her response was unsuitable, automated.
As she walked away, burying the anxiety within her mind, she sought refuge in the text printed on her ticket, the memory of a shoebox in her closet that contained every ticket stub in it, and it had been a long time since she revisited it, travelled through her personal history.
She never looked back, might never look back, because she knew the moment you try to locate an origin point, start telling a story from the beginning, you cease to live it.
The theatre was almost empty, and every time she moved she’d see flurries of dust before her. As soon as the house lights dimmed to pitch darkness, and the show began, the dormant part of her brain in command of visual pleasures turned on, and for a few hours she left this world, our world, thankfully.
The end of the film did her in. Instead of doing as she said she was going to do—head backstage to prepare for her performance as a last minute substitution for her oddly untimely injured student—the piano teacher lingered in the lobby waiting for her beloved. After all, it had almost been twenty-four hours since he violently abused and raped her. They need to debrief, make sure they’re okay, because she has no self-esteem. She hides behind a column and anxiously paces around where she can't be seen. All the other pale faces flooding in are anonymous, irrelevant and insignificant. The creak of the door as it closes on its own seems to have its own encoded horror. He finally arrives: she makes her way into the hall feigning as though she, too, had just been waltzing in. He offers a derisory salutation, a tragically guiltless half-grin, and briefly glances at her wanting countenance. It is as if nothing has ever happened between the two of them; strangers in passing. She, now unseen, stands there in the desolate, oppressive space. You can feel the walls closing in, it is evident in the quiver of her lips. She slips out the knife from the kitchen drawer she'd slipped into her purse earlier and stabs herself over her heart, her face contorting, blood ruining her timeless silk blouse, and the enviable tan trench coat.
On her way back to the parking lot, she couldn't remember where she'd put her parking ticket, so she searched her pockets for it again and again. Restless, she descended the steps, stepping into the piss, which anointed her ankles, and briskly walked to her car. No luck.
It occurred to her, then, that her bad luck was possibly a direct result from abandoning her attachment to the film featuring the dress, in having cheated on it, and she saw it as a sign that it would be for the best for her to return to the way things were, get out of the way.
Just then a man—the man from the counter with the long fingers—walked towards her.
"Sir," she said.
He slowed, assessed whether or not she was going to be causing him trouble tonight.
"Do you know what to do if you've misplaced your ticket?"
"There's a button on the kiosk that says lost ticket," he said monotonously.
“Thank you,” she said, bowing her head. “Enjoy the show.”
“You too,” he replied, walking away with a dimple on his face.
Upstairs, paying for her ticket, pressing the button, she no longer felt like God in the painting, but Adam instead: a mere mortal condemned to a certain fate.
Back in the car, when she pulled the sun visor to look at herself, the parking ticket, no longer so lost, fell into her lap, and though relieved, letting out a light chuckle, she was able to return to the buzzing feeling after the movie. She was always the fool.
They had stopped at the boardwalk to stare at the swans, when Otto kissed her cheek.
She turned her head to look at him, then silently walked towards a school of seagulls who, finishing up decimating a package of white bread, scrammed suddenly.
Now that he wanted her, she found him to be revolting, all his flaws rose to the surface.
What she wanted, most of all, was to want what she couldn’t have, that’s what turned her on, and she hoped he knew how to pretend nothing had happened, accept her non-reaction.
“I couldn’t control myself.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she said. “What did you think you’d achieve?”
He reached into his pockets and was soon smoking a cigarette.
“You’re a difficult one.”
“I wouldn’t want to be considered easy,” she said.
“So what do I do now?”
All of his emotions were superficial and short-lasting. He had to make a U-turn, get back onto the main road. Find somewhere else to park his car every night.
“You keep looking,” she said.
“I wish it was easier. I wish I lived a different life.”
He was chronically dissatisfied, full of complaints, negative and narcissistic.
They’d stood silent and still there long enough that the seagulls, thinking the coast was clear, had returned to eat the crust.
One fine morning Otto phoned her as she was seasoning potatoes to go into the oven.
“Your film is playing at a drive-in movie theatre up North,” he said.
She was speechless: her family—whom, in that moment, she wouldn’t’ve minded didn’t exist—was coming over to celebrate her parents' wedding anniversary.
“I want to,” she said. “But I can’t.”
“I think I’m going to go though.”
She felt a pang in her gut, wanted to hang up the phone, die right there.
It was one thing for her to miss out on it, but for him to go and participate without her?
This would terrorize her for weeks to come.
“Maybe I’ll drop by after the film. If you’re still up.”
“Don’t bother,” she said, abruptly hanging up.
He immediately called back. She didn’t answer.
Pissed and wanting some sort of revenge, she finally wore the dress from the film.
She served her family cups of tea and trays of biscuits and they took turns catching each other up about their lives in the interim. She smiled and from the outside it must have seemed that she was living the present moment and enjoying herself but within she was far from it.
They talked and talked and laughed and she laid her head back on the muskoka chair and allowed the sunlight to fall onto it, steady, strong.
In her mind she could not see what the movie looked like since she’d never seen it before.
And somewhere along this train of thought she was overtaken by a brief slumber that followed a period of heightened levels of stress. Her family were considerate enough not to wake her—she worked too hard—for they knew how rare real sleep was for people like her.
They lowered their volumes and yapped away, the spice of ginger dissipating from the back of their tongues with every sip of the lukewarm tea.
She was still wearing the dress when he dropped by; but he’d failed to remark upon it.
She wanted to kiss him in the hopes of transferring his experience of the film onto her.
He said that he was almost late. Said the parking lot was packed and there was a surprising number of children running around. Said that the station where the audio came through was staticky and sometimes faded out. Said that someone comes around trying to sell you bags of popcorn and here’s the leftover of one. Said that the movie was interesting if a bit long and slightly confusing. Said that he understood what all the hype was about but he was not sure he would go out of his way to watch it again. It had not infected him as it had to the masses.
We’re opposites, she thought, removing her hand from his thigh, that don't attract.
He said on his way back from the bathroom he ran into a girl who was wearing a dress.
“Kind of like the one you’re wearing,” he said. “But more like the one in the movie.”
“We started talking and she gave me her phone number,” he said, eyes-shining, “I think I have a chance with her.”
She closed her eyes, took her deep breaths, wondered why bad things happened to good people. It was her fault, she thought, for sharing her desire with him, making him a partner, for rejecting his advance and encouraging him to widen the reach of his net. The life she wanted to live was at odds with the life she lived; but here he was: having it all.
“You have to leave,” she said, not that it made any difference to his occupied attention.
After he took off, she didn’t take off the dress, lose hope, as she might’ve in the past. Never was she more determined to watch that film, resolute, convinced it was her destiny. She vowed to herself not to take off the dress until she saw an end to this inconvenient obsession.
And she’s still wearing it, to this day, waiting for the show to begin.
Back on the Skinning Rack by Raina Tucker | Substack
You told me I sound like a dying animal in my sleep. Like a whining deer shot down by the huntsmen.
I picked myself up from the ground, wounded and limping, to die somewhere else.
You drag me to your shed to rest. I crawl on my hands and knees, and now we’re at your front door, and I'm asking if I can sleep on your floor again. I promise I'll be quiet this time.
Use my back as your rug, I’ll let you sink your feet into my chest, to make me your furniture.
Put me to use, let me do something I can be proud of this time. When I sleep I dream of you, I dream of everything I wish I could tell you. But I am not stoic and you are not a killer.
And I want you–I want you to take me as I am. To tear me apart and like every bit of it.
You could put me in your lunchbox, as the meat and the cutlery. You could wrap yourself in me when you get cold at night.
This is my way of saying I love you. This is how I can show you I care.
Now I'm ready to go to sleep. Take out your gun.
Hangover by Raina Tucker
He seems proud to say that he never thought of you until now. You are supposed to congratulate him for his revelation. You’re supposed to thank him so he can shrug it off.
And he’s older than you remember. Cleaner, you think. He smiles with his teeth. He smokes less, drinks more. You kind of want to hit him but that will make him leave again. If you don’t, he can’t promise that he’ll stay, anyways. The only place he’ll agree to see you again is at a bar. One of those main street bars with industrial lighting and varnished picnic tables.
You like to feed yourself in a way that makes you empty. see him, get your fill, go hungry. wash, rinse, repeat. He gives you his new number. You remind him of the time. Waiting out again before last call hits and the bartender shoos you away.
Over the past months you continue to invite yourself to places you are not welcome. You’ve become the loneliest person in a crowded room. You ask your friends if they still love you and why. You wash your sheets and steam your couch and still feel dirty.
Nobody’s calling back. Better luck next time! Take your blade and take your money and go home. You walk for hours and pace around the living room. Peel the blisters off the next morning. He loves you, but he’s not coming back for you. He makes you sick enough that you didn’t drink but you’re still hungover. Dry mouth, your stomach sick with anger, then guilt, then worry, and after all of that the vomit hits. You can finally rid him from your body.
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