Consumption

The hand moves slowly over my belly and rests on what was once agitated and full of vigor. The hand forms a cup over it now. It is slightly damp, resting lazily along my left thigh. The hand will soon warm it to the point of uncomfortable, sticky heat. A purred delicious “thank you,” a rustle of the sheets, a movement of soft brown hair settling into place on the right side of my chest. A lip pressing into my side. My hand moves to the nightstand, picks up a cigarette, places it into my mouth. Fingers toy with a lighter, a soft orange glow waxes and wanes with my breathing. Tranquil paralysis.

Her breathing slows to deep sleep. I lie, fully awake, aware of the cars passing outside the windows, the street lights flickering as the leaves on branches pass over them, carried by the wind. A horn blasts and my breathing jilts, but the head remains still, imprinting an earring into my skin.

Exhale. The smoke rises, playing delicate games with the yellow light of the lava lamp, spinning in quiet circles, wafting over posters of Joan Miro, Alponse Mucha. Over oil and wax blotches of red poppies. Inhale. The brown hair glows auburn for a moment, then returns to the quiet brown of usual, of boring, of bland. Commonplace.

My left hand plays with a thimble-sized ivory pendant. It was a gift, presented with a smirk, the smirk given when I didn’t know how to react, when I didn’t know what to do, when savoir faire was needed but missing. The smirk given to other people in shopping malls and cafés, a dismissive smirk, telling me in no uncertain terms the mistakes other people committed, the rules violated, and the humiliation deserved. That man should know brown and navy should never be worn together. That woman should know those shoes were ludicrous decisions, that blue eyeliner was clearly out. White pants should never be worn after 1987. The smirk told tales of these other people as stars of their own divine comedies, of parades worthy of ridicule. These poor unfortunates who weren’t guided by fashion magazines, taught by haute société, commanded by unwritten rules learned in dusty houses overstuffed with rose damask, Lladro statues, dark brown furniture. Beige lightin g.

Miro and Mucha’s posters were forced upon me; I wanted the colours of MM lithographs, silk screened Campbell’s soups, chicken noodle. But I “simply didn’t understand art, dahling.” That art, my choice, appeals to commoners pretending to be them, pretending that objects lead to access, that image leads to class. But the commonplace brown hair was maintained by the most exclusive hairdressers, finished with expensive jewellery, coordinated with tailored navy-blue suits. Image perfecting labour, designed to distinguish those obsessed with image, between those obsessed with image. A fine abstract line drawn with manicured nails, accusing, pointing at the empty shell of superficial.

The small Cartier clock given as a gift clicks as it hits the hour, realigning hands, rethinking the next move. It sits on a shelf cluttered with dusty books, a half-dead plant, a tawdry pink and blue fifth grade ceramics project. The last was debated; I won, she smirked. It was mine, I made it, a happier time, didn’t know, didn’t care what Cartier meant. From fifth grade on, an accelerated drive, an oil spill, out of control, me crashing into a commonplace brown wall. The clock’s gilding glints softly, the lapis bezel mutilates the light, highlights the contrasts. The hands are satisfied, resume.

Parfum de toilette, not eau de toilette, not eau de parfum, nor parfum concentré, is heavy in the air. Pulse points; “apply it to pulse points.” The heat of sex subsides, turning into a dull warm, but the pulse persists; heat, wafting, scenting, polluting. Endless trips to city perfume counters yield one purchase. Dull, haughty tones addressed store clerks, demanded this famous Parfum De Toilette. Eyes rolled, breath sighs, mind and manner settled on a special order. From Paris, of course. Arrival, five days. My arrival, that day; tan pants crinkled, shirt un-tucked, white sweater. Not good enough; “anti-chic,” sent back like hot gazpacho. Black pants, suffocating fabric, by Gaultier. “’L’ not pronounced,” smirk. Black Merino wool sweater. Uncomfortable, chic, good enough. Finally. Excursion, purchase, over. Limousine, Madison Avenue, Park Avenue, Central Park East, stop. Limousine, St. Mark Street, Washington Park, Alphabet City, Home.

Down payment: Luigi’s. No separate cheques, the big step. Smile, toast, radiant. Champagne not my choosing, my embarrassed French mispronounced. To the rescue, her perfect Parisienne, then smirk. Food placed; a picked nibbled salad, my devoured veal and please pass the rolls for me. Alone at table; bathroom beckoned. Check teeth in knife too shiny. Dark green spice in front tooth, sauce on lip. Bathroom peels with haughty giggle; smirk? Napkin dipped in water glass, rescue. As a pair again, at table, eyes wander casually to my mouth when I smile. Satisfied eyes.

First meeting; across the room, caught eye, smiled. Genuine. Room smoky, crowded, music loud, sweaty bodies bumping. Her heavy eye makeup too perfect to be smutty; clothes fit too well, stitched too well, to fully belong. Later discovered it was: play time, way to rebel, way to relax, naughtiness, wicked. False. An escape into my arms, a foolish escapade that never disappeared, that found some commonality, that stuck like glue because I fit well into a life lived in ways requiring a bit, some, any, escape. Escape through ways that require shock value, preferably with someone not “one of us” but one of those. But not overly “one of those;” not to the extent of being unable to train, spiff, polish, pretend. To plaster, coif, squeeze, then reward after tricks performed to expectation. Otherwise, smirk. To invent my past, a family, mannerisms. A capricious escapade executed with regimented routine.

It. Wasn’t always “it” but soon became once the childish candor became standard. A Gibson, another; wild, randy, hard, fast, more, deeper. Fake. Alcohol induced passion always one-sided. Sober; blah. A ritual, unaltered, regulation event. Still, unmoving. Her chestnut hair spread across pillows was once my dream but soon became an unwanted commonplace tangle. Pump, (laying still), urgency, (regulation pet name), spurt, (“Oh God”), then decompress, relax, steam rises. The dreaded “thank you,” objectified, service provided, rendered.

And so it is, with commonplace, mouse brown hair, a dead fur coat accident, glowing auburn occasionally, misted with grey smoke. Total concealment of dissatisfaction. Her sleep, her murmurs, me on alert, me silent, me reflective, my waiting, my hating, my need for change. Her hand suffocates, sweats, grips in middle of REM, I wince, expecting pain. None follows. Hand shifts to stretch across my side. Relief.

The cigarette ashes collect, the last puff taken, the embers glow dim in the crystal ashtray. My hand returns to the pendant, unhooks the clasp. The small thimble sized cylinder rests above her head on my chest. I unscrew the lid, taking care not to spill the arsenic inside. The white powder, the remedy, the solution, the open window. My right arm releases from her shoulder; hand cups, accepts the powder spilled into it. I bring it to my mouth. This mouth and its attachment, whoever this is, whoever this has been; the reflection is so pale, dried, dead. This orague, this oraison; it’s over. I smirk.