This is not bout you. You were symptom; this is bout is bout the dise se. This is bout me expl ining something to you. This is bout me expl ining something to you like the rock t lking b ck to Moses. . This is bout the summer before when I w s sitting t wrought iron t ble, in c fé, w iting for you. The t ble w s not inside; it w s outside like I w s t c f c fé in Fr nce, but I w s s not in Fr nce. I w s here, nd it w s hot, but I w s we ring button down shirt nd p nts bec use I couldn’t st nd the w y my p le legs looked in shorts. I remember I w s re ding book to p ss the time. I w s re ding The Br nch Will Not Bre k by J mes es Wright. I w s mouthing the poem “The Jewel Jewel” to myself, but only the firs first three lines. I w s s ying, silently: There is this c ve in
the ir behind my body th t nobody is going to touch. I mouthed it over nd over like m ntr —like pr yer, nd I pr yed it twelve times before fore you c me, nd when you did, you didn’t pologize pologize for being l te or s y Hello, but inste d, you r n single finger cross ross line of bones in my h nd nd s t down own in the ch ir cross from me, nd I finished my thirteenth recit tion. ecit tion. Then I looked t you nd you looked t me, our eyes meeting in the middle of the t ble like two ships p ssing, nd you brushed ushed your h ir with your h nd bec use it h d come loose on the left side nd w s covering your eye. You h d ttr ctive eyes the s me color s childhood tree dr wn with ith cr yon. You sked me if I h d ordered yet, nd I told you, No, bec use it w s the truth. A t ble over, n old m n w s dipping te b g inside sm ll cup of hot w ter but you did not see him. Inste d, you r n your finger long the edge of the t ble s if feeling for cr cks. Your our dress w s yellow, like the sun or bird, nd you sked me, Are there menus? And I told you th t, technic lly spe king, we were expected to go inside where the menu w s on bo rd behind the counter.
Across the street wom n nd her three children w lked out of b nk nd got into c r while you re ched down into your b g nd fished out p ck of cig rettes. The box w s glimmering, obsidi n bl ck. They were c lled De th Cig rettes, br nd no one m de nymore, but the box of which you h d found, once, b ndoned in Europe n b ck lly gutter nd now insisted on using over nd over g in s joke. And, s you picked out white stick from the h lf-dozen different colors inside, it w s, I guess, decent joke, though not the kind I would ctu lly l ugh t. More, the kind I would h ve smiled t, dmiring how clever you were. You told me, Oh well I’m not hungry nyw y. And then you stuck the cig rette in between your lips nd lit it on fire. You turned your body to f ce the street, nd I remember noticing the e rring sticking out bene th your ugly, bronzed h ir m de t ngled nd f t by the summer he t. But I w tched the e rring twirl nd tried to decide if I h d ever seen it before, nd s your he d stood still, it c ught the light given off by the sun setting behind me nd hurled it b ck t me like it w s m de of hundred miniscule st rs. For second, it m de me forget you were there t ll. But it did not l st; horn of c r r ged g inst child crossing the street, nd behind you, p ir of young men w lked into the c fé, shriek-l ughing t some secret joke. I w nted them to die, but inste d, I sked you, Give me cig rette? You looked t me out of the corner of your eye, like you didn’t believe me. Wh t kind? Something he lthy. You p ssed me the h lfsmoked one h nging out the corner of your mouth nd I took single dr g. God, I s id. These re wretched. Then I h nded it b ck to you, nd I remember rubbing the film left by your lipstick between my fingers. Of course they re. Things don’t ch nge.
I thought m ybe m these would be different somehow—like somehow they would h ve something speci l in them like chocol te or licorice. You turned your he d w y from om the street, looked t me, nd mouthed lmost silently, Nope. And m ybe you even smiled while you s id it. But I didn’t nswer. I don’t think I knew how. I just bre thed. bre thed W Without putting the cig rette in your mouth nd finishing it, you st mped it out in the shtr y, nd s I w tched you, it c ught up to me like de th c tches up to you in the middle of the night, nd I remembered the d y I told you I loved you. It w s fter we h d m de love, twice, in the e rly fternoon nd the sunlight w s le king through your bedroom window nd onto our bodies. I rolled over on top of you nd r n my finger cross the sm ll, , w vering w ve line bene th your bre sts. . Then I kissed you on the forehe d nd whispered wh in your e r, I love you. And I remembered th t, s I pulled w y, you h d scr tched tched the h ir bove your clit nd told me, I love you too. God th t w s n insufficient nswer. God I should’ve broken you. God I could’ve broken you, even there in the c fé. c f I could h ve done something. I could’ve s id something something. I could’ve shrieked—I could’ve writhed—I writhed could’ve stood up, took three p ces, nd sm shedsm shed in the teeth of the first freshf ced boy I s w nd c lled him whore in front of his crying, begging mother mother—just out of me nness; just out of love. I swe r I h d it in me. I swe r there w s something in me. For Christ’s s ke, I could’ve d nced—I d nced could’ve thrown my body into contortions nd r ttled down the street while old women looked w y t the wedding rings on their h nds. But inste d, I bre thed g in nd repe ted inside my mind,
Th t nobody is going to touch; Th t h t nobody is going to touch, until everything curved inw rd, nd I w s ble to c lmly open my eyes nd see the first edges of night pe king up over the crest of your skull.