SHE WOULD HAVE LIKED THAT

she would have liked that

to remove his clothes
and feel his naked skin
underneath her fingertips

DISAPPEARING

I am starting to forget the appearance of him. Sometimes I can recall his face, but only partly. I remember his eyebrows, his teeth, and the texture of his hair but they don’t form a whole. I remember how his body moved when he walked- the posture slightly bending backwards and perhaps, I can recall his hands and always well-done nails, too. Yet, the rest of my memory is fogged, as it avoids picturing him together as a whole.

SHARP PENCILS

Today I fell in love with a man who appeared at my gallery at 9:27 am in the morning offering to help me. He was quiet, but confident, listening about my failed attempts to install the frames levelled on a wall. After I finished telling him, he nodded, bent down towards the paper on the floor and asked for a pencil. I gave him a blunt pencil from the back pocket of my jeans. He drew a few lines with it, and then quietly asked:
“You don’t happen to have a sharpener nearby, don’t you?”
“No, I’m sorry. I have a pen.”
“It’s okay.”
He keeps drawing and I am quietly walking around, looking at the several small frames on the floor and thinking of possible solutions to get them straight on the wall. Suddenly he stands up, excuses himself and says he will be back shortly. When he returns a few minutes later with a sharpener, he takes my pencil from the floor, goes near to the bin, and sharpens it. He returns, bends back towards the floor, and smiles at me.
“I’m just particular. I like my pencils sharp.”

DETAILS

I have a memory of being a child and playing a game with my sister by the seaside. Sitting on a big stone, side by side, facing the sea what looked different each day, she said:
“Let’s play a game where we name everything that we can hear. Who cannot name anything anymore, loses. I’ll start.” 
“Okay,” I agreed, as I did with everything she said. She was my favourite person. What she liked, I liked. What she said, I said. I wrapped my arms around my small knees. Let’s play a game.
“Sea”
“Wind”
“Birds”
“The wings of the birds”
“Grass”
“A boat”
“Waves”
“Water”
“Isn’t that the same as the sea?” she asked.
“No, you can hear the dripping. Listen!” I answered.
We listen. 
Drip, drip, drip. 
“Okay. A plane”
I look up. There is a plane flying over us, leaving traces to the cloudless sky.
“Dad”
“The other man dad is talking to”
“Barking dog” she lists.
I listen carefully, selecting out all the sounds that have been already named. I rub my hand on my leg, thinking would that count as something to be listed. I know she would argue. I’m trying to hear anything else. Birds have already been said. Waves, water, stones, grass, wind, wings…
“Your turn,” she says.
“I cannot hear more,” I say. 
“You lost!” she announces. 
I’m not arguing. I knew I lost. 
“Okay,” she says. The waves take over the short silence, small birds chirping as they fly over the water. “Now, let’s list everything that we can see.”

BRUISES

2020

All the men with who I have been with, have learned quickly about my easily bruising skin. Their fingertips can be found on my hips and neck long after the touch has passed, and their hands lifted from my skin. After I have taken a shower to wash off the sweat and touch on the surface. Blue marks appear on my skin within the next twelve hours, showing traces of past love making within the upcoming days. 

It’s always the next morning when walking to the bathroom and I’m slowly turning my body in front of the mirror, searching for proofs about the last night, making myself aware of the locations to prepare myself for the public looks. I wear them with pride most of the days. Some days I cover them with my make-up, carefully applying layers of primer and foundation on them, especially when located on my neck. This happens when I need to stand in front of the meetings. It happened once when I decided to leave them uncovered and I noticed the decrease of attention that people gave to my words after they discovered the marks on my neck. Sometimes big and even; sometimes few small ones, chronologically in row. But on other days, I leave them. I wash them with soap and warm water and choose a shirt which sometimes gives them their full attention. It represents some sort of empowerment. Femininity. The power of sex and lovemaking. Somewhere between the line of presenting my worth in a physical body. That I choose and that people choose me. Desire what has been responded to. 

I spent a night at a hotel abroad alone. After hours of reading a book in the bath I ran for myself, I felt hunger and called downstairs to the restaurant to book myself a table. I put my heels on and pull over a shirt, exposing my bare shoulders and neck. I put my curly hair up with a clip, aware of how that reveals the big bruise on the back of my neck, appeared on my body only a night earlier. I am aware of every aspect of it. I am aware of my naked shoulders exposing my bony collarbones, my long blonde hair up carelessly, only parts of it hanging out, my painted red lips and me dining alone without my phone nearby and that the noticeable bruise on my back is visible to everyone who decides to see. I am sitting in that low dimmed lighted area, located by the window, waiting for my fig salad to arrive. I open the book which is still moist from the turned pages that I read when in the bath. My strong tobacco and leather perfume fills up the room. Every detail around me is well designed to be noticed. I want to be noticed. I desire to be seen by people who decide to see, leaving them wondering. Silent empowerment. After the first dry martini is sent to my table, followed by the one I ordered myself, I smile at the man who is sitting two tables behind me. I eat my salad, read my book, take a sip from the second martini and as I feel finished, I stand up, nod to the man as an appreciation and leave. I decide. He is a pass. I’m free but occupied. 

Year ago, after I broke up with my then boyfriend, I travelled to his hometown after months apart, turning what, we broke up. We sat in his living room, wording our final thoughts and getting ready for my departure again, shortly after a few hours of arrival. He sits on my left side, looking at me with the eyes that reveal past lived love, still strong enough to bloom into another flame but that’s not why we are there, sitting on that sofa. His eyes stop on my arms.

“You have bruises on your arms,” is all he says, after he stands up to bring us water from the kitchen. 

All the men with who I have been with, more than once, have learned quickly about my easily bruising skin. What once has been the power and pride of theirs, has become mine.