The air is thick between us this morning, as if one of us is seeping deceit and trickery through our veins and dripping onto the woven carpet. Silence is elongated and spreads like a fog through the summer room, its smog polluting my vision of what is truthful and what is an illusion. His eyes – a mixture of teal and spring blue – gaze along my body before the rest of him follows their lead, his kisses on my hips, gentle across the cocoa butter layers of skin. In my head Natalie Merchant songs are replaying in fragments, an internal paintbrush pasting layer over layer of intangible lyrics across the matter of my mind. He ponders over whether he should leave or not – I’m ambiguous, vague in my answers – because either way, boredom is going to set in whether I’m solitary all day, or if I have company. Boredom oozes through space, penetrating the Earth’s atmosphere on its way from a stellar minefield, descending lower until it hits these foundations. Exuding through the frameworks, slithering down walls in its purest gelatinous form before expanding into an effluvium, a hazardous essence that permeates our souls. As we lay on the Japanese bed, it crawls into our minds, turning us sour and developing our citrus minds that may spit at any moment.
A finger through my curly hair as the electric storm cursed our balcony, the scented sheets and translucent curtains wildly flailing in the evening wind. Her feet slipping from beneath her as she tiptoes out to the balcony thinking, perhaps Thor won’t strike if I’m silent, the wind rushing through her hair, silently caressing the veins in her neck. The marbled floor and beige sofa we used to sink into shrinking in my mind, the glowing CD rack emanating aural vibes, floating in vibrations from ear to ear. As the lightning cracked the sky horizontal the warmth erupted through our windows, the thick patio glass thawing in an exothermic reaction of love and war. Another night we waded through a dark car park, the rainwater flowing around and above our ankles, the oily liquid shrinking as it climbed higher up our nigger legs. Sitting by the rippling blue waves of the pool we spat our native language at own our species, saving the foreign tongue for our more exciting adventures.
One day they were turning the beach on its head – flipping its life upside down and sucking the sea inside out. Evacuating the shore we stood back, high up on the sands next to the large pipe covered in algae and seaweed. The golden sands beneath our feet found their way into the superficial cuts along my toes – the product of an eager sea swimmer. Boy feet stood all around my own, small toes attached to small feet, almost hairless legs and their bodies coated in a deep coffee skin. We anticipated the arrival of fresh wet sand to throw into the air, screaming as it slopped back down with a plop onto the fair European sands. With a tremendous chug the pipe began to spit water and sparkling golden particles in bulk from down under. Grabbing our buckets we fished for crabs, their faded pink shells bubbling to the top before once again, sinking under the new shores to never be seen again. A pancake floated on the surface – a brown flatfish poking its eyes above the surface waiting for destiny to take control. We danced in the quick sands, flinging algae at our boy feet, careless of hygiene, because all that mattered was that moment.
We sit opposite each other and his hand rides up my twelve year old pyjama shorts, stopping on the outside of my thigh. The thigh. His hands run over two deep scars that I sometimes look at in the bathroom, as the shower creates steam that elevates in swirls, fogging the mirror until my face is unrecognisable. I push my face towards the heavily misted reflection and see nothing but the shape of my face, the outlines of my identity, and sometimes wonder if it’s really myself staring back at this face. His fingers detect a texture and replay the same line, up and down, before he looks into my eyes. I turn away from my reflection, afraid that someone else is staring into this body. I extend my arm and with a damp hand, stretched fingers, I wipe away the mist.