Bones, and the Rest of Me

The affair began as most do, over a drink.

Lucian reached over the table, and I can’t remember what was in my glass, but I remember when he touched my hand, only the knuckles, as if feeling for the bones underneath the skin, making sure they were there, that I was real. When he took it back, I saw on his face an expression I’d never seen on a man before, and I withdrew my hand from the table, and pressed on the same spot. He had made me doubt for the first time.

It was then I decided to keep him around, in case I ever needed reminding.

He liked to watch me, as much as I liked him to check up on me, making sure I was presentable, like a mirror I was training to follow me around. When I caught sight of his eye, flicking up and down my body, it was as if the world was opening again, and I no longer existed just inside my head.

It was a year of this before I got sick. I didn’t tell him. He had more to worry about, he always told me, but never what. I reminded myself this was not that kind of affair, and let him pass. He woke before me, kissed my collarbones. He liked to know that I was still there when he left, as he got dressed, washed his face, and left the door unlocked. I would sometimes turn over in bed, see him standing by the window, the only shadow in the room, and he would stop, stare, until I turned around again.

I imagined I was turning white, whiter than the sheets refreshed with every one of these rendezvous, whiter than my bones, his teeth. After a while of being sick, I imagined my blush returning, and remaining there after I washed my face. I went to the doctor, twice a week, every week, until I took on the colour of the walls.

The doctor looked at me, and so did the nurse. When I was alone, the ceiling looked at me, and the light bulbs, the thin sheet covering me held the bones together. It was as light as a wedding dress.

Lucian always came home after me, with something in his hands. Flowers, white roses, dark chocolate. He wouldn’t smile as he handed them over, more like he was relieving a burden, making his hands free. They wouldn’t be empty for long. He would hold onto me, my bones and the rest of me.

This diseased self, falling apart, tearing itself open piece by piece, has become like a ghost. I have allowed too many eyes to touch it, each stealing something from it, something vital, some nutrient or nuance of pink.

A sigh in the night, shed by a star, is the journalism of what my life could be. It wants me to survive, but this blank room is my habitat. I hate this wallpaper, but it’s not as bad as any other. Through the window are parallel lines, and I cannot fit between them like he does, cannot move through this life on its rails and streets and sidewalks.

So I return here, and I am always here, except twice a week, every week, when I go to be looked at and checked, and find out that I have lost more of myself since last time. But I still have all my bones, they are there when he touches them, and that is all I need, for now.