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Today
is the day I will see Joe again. It's been five years
and I think I have finally found the strength I need,
even though there is no reason to summon it at this very
moment. Under my hands there is a mountain of second-hand
clothes, releasing the oil and sweat of a dozen other
bodies into the air. It is a strangely comforting smell,
which would have disturbed me long ago. But the smell
of the unnatural was thrust up on me, and washed my nausea
away forever.
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1 |
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People
in the store are watching, so I return to the pile of
clothes and ignore them, a skill that has grown like a
vine expanding into a crumbling wall, wooden reinforcement
no one suspects to be there. The garments are soft and
woollen, with a faint lavender scent that releases under
my touch. Below my left nostril there is an itch, but
I will not scratch in front of them and confirm their
suspicions. Summer has come, and itching is its curse.
I would like to shove my face in front of these suburban
voyeurs, dig fingernails into my skin and scratch and
rip until my face turns the colour of shredded meat. Make
them face the things I have had to, and become one with
me.
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2 |
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But
the strength returns, unearthed from beneath an argyle
pullover, and I wait, watching for a space where I can
move on undetected to the next pile. One of the audience,
a solid, pink-skinned boy barely out of his teens, is
wandering around the room, offering opinions on everything
from football premiership favourites to fashion. Three
front teeth stick out past his top lip, hanging over a
recessed jaw. He looks up at me, and a spark of mischief
forms in his eyes. He hides beneath a rack of clothing,
panting and waiting with exuberance and jumps out in front
of the next shopper that walks past. She steps aside in
quiet discomfort. A high-pitched squeal of delight comes
out of his mouth. It sounds like mocking and almost makes
me smile. He looks at me, so I avert my gaze to the rack
of clothes I am sifting through. Woollens, linen, all
years past their fashion expiry date. I lift my head and
he is there, standing at my side, a gaze penetrating the
dead skin on my face until I can almost feel it.
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"What's
wrong with-"
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4 |
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"Leave
her alone, Ryan. Come on, we have to go," says a woman,
and she drags him out of the store.
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5 |
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Ryan
looks back, his eyes locked on me as he rounds the corner
of the shopfront. Like seeks out like, you see. Other
shoppers are returning to their routine. Their suspicions
of him are confirmed, and they no longer stare at me with
the same intensity. I want to sit with him and let him
run his fingers over my face, secretly glad to no longer
be on the bottom of the pecking order.
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