Mannequin Envy
a journal of visual and literary arts
~fall 2006 ~
| "I live in Tasmania, Australia with my two sons and a staffy pup.
Previous work has been published in The Absinthe Literary Review,
Stylus, a pos tro phe, the-hold.com with forthcoming work soon to be
published in the thieves jargon." Hospital Corners The scent of wind caught in sheets pegged to the washing line. Small leaves from a nearby Camellia blew in her hair while she stood, removing the pegs and carrying the sheets to her bed, hands as neat as the habit of lifting, then tucking the bottom of the sheet into hospital corners from the time she worked as a nurse, and now, after four winters, each one different and each one the same slow pause, an ache that never fades. Sometimes, she thinks seasons don't change, that the frost on the lawn will never thaw. Frozen despite the chicken vindaloo, jasmine rice steaming the kitchen window foggy as a half remembered dream. She eats. She drinks. She swallows a slow release tablet, 10mgs of white morphine, turns off the lights before she lies on her back keeping her hands by her side because if they covered her chest it would look like she's waiting for mourners instead of another morning that isn't happy and isn't sad. It isn't normal either. Not much to do when acute lingers like nurses taking their evening meal, the only break where they can talk in private before returning to the work of checking wounds, the suture-lines cleaned with normal saline which has the same amount of salt as tears. It doesn't sting. It often feels warm. It's different than the cold in chronic trapped like a nerve at first. From there it gets a whole lot worse. The Woman With A Thick Black Luxurious Moustache doesn't have a place in the story. She was shoved in one Saturday early in the afternoon when he said he'd like to take her to bed, then added, out of courtesy only if she felt amenable that is, would she mind if he undressed her in natural light, her hand on his shoulder as he bends, slips off her jeans after she lifts her arms for him to remove the top half of her clothes and then of course, he holds her hand and what follows next depends how bad her back is. Sometimes she's passive to avoid what happens every morning. She doesn't want to talk how much it hurts so she questions without him knowing the answer is beauty less the conventional pick of what a woman is. He's attentive and kind and he says, a woman with intelligence, keen insight, a woman who wants to know who the hell he is is sensual if she happens to have what he can't describe except to opine the word mystery will have to do and not only that, her mystery has to be held at first sight, then discovered to be deep. So deep possibilities take flight when he says a hairy woman, say, a woman with more hair of her chest than him is OK. And when he imagines a woman with a thick black luxurious moustache he says he may consider a hint or two regarding removal. As for clothing, a woman can wear whatever she chooses as long as these questions aren't about her because he enjoys looking when she tempts him to remove that pretty green top. The fabric reminds him of India and because the cotton is thin, perfume escapes the same way her hair falls on his face when she sits on top of him. He's never been to India even though he knows Ganesha is an Elephant god and if he was forced to choose a religion he'd be a Hindu and if he was a Hindu, he's have to wash his feet in the stinking river where the risk is rife. And this is what it is like. The pain in her back has her searching for compromise she imagines an Indian bride in bold red would wear in a portrait shot in a book about beauty found in ordinary places. |