pre-April Flash Challenge #4
Amygdalas prompts: Testosterone makes you stupid; bits of cotton and corpusches of paper; a paved road is sure to lead somewhere; those who can, teach. Those who cant, preach
I never once emptied my pockets. Im not sure what I would find, what madness of treasure keeping would come to light at the surface if I ever dug deep enough to discover it. It was a defense mechanism, see clinging to scraps and remnants like they were lies that covered me safely. That was you were never naked, never clinging to the tenacity of skin alone. She wanted me bare, open. It wasnt enough that the clothes came off, really it had to be bare, all laid out on the table. We started with the shoes. My OCD in high overdrive as the dirty laces slipped through my disinfected hands, tugging at a knot with broken, ripped and chewed away fingernails, aching for the smooth relaxation of lotion on my hands but falling short when I caught the look in her eye. She was not going to be patient. It was now. Always was now. I pulled the laces through the top few loops, loosening the tongue of my shoe which I found ironic, since mine was tied in knots much tighter than those I had just undone. My shoes dropped to the floor with a satisfying clunk. Socks were next, inside out and backwards. I felt myself blushing. This was not what I had intended by coming here. I reached for my wallet in the pocket of my jeans these jeans, faded glories of what they once were, becoming like a second skin to me. I could tell you where every stain, every spot worn rough had come from. There was still scraps of dirt caked in the rolled up cuffs at the bottom from a slide down a hill in mud that no amount of washing seemed to be able to release. Truth was, I didnt wash them much anyway. Taking my jeans out of the dryer, firm and hardened and sliding them back over my skin was like injecting a mold of yourself into unyielding plastic. It took awhile to break them in, until they creased of their own volition in the right places, and rubbed your skin smooth with the inseam and careless, casual step. At this point, Testosterone makes you stupid. I had too much, I think, for a careful woman on the point of being examined by someone with a critical, yet bemused smile. After my wallet, in rapid succession came my keys, clenched just a little too long in my fist, the metal digging into and leaving a faint impression of their teeth in the palm of my hand. My hands were shaky anyway. I pulled bits of cotton and corpuscles of paper, lint, memoirs that had not survived the washing as they had not been removed floated in the air before disintegrating into dust, like they never existed at all. I think my fingers forgot how to work the button, and zippers seemed far more tricky than I had remembered. It had been a long time.
I left my underwear on for a time, moving instead to my shirt, more buttons more fumbling, pulling the first layer over my head before it was fully untangled and finding myself a mess of flailing arms, a head too big to fit through that tight hole at the top, thrashing around like a caught, netted fish. At least there were no hooks. I dug my teeth into my bottom lip instead, realizing how stupid I must look. I got dressed every day. Undressed every day as well. Why was I finding this so difficult? Its because I knew a paved road is sure to leave somewhere, and I was paving the way in sweat and insecurity, not sure where the road was leading. It was being unaware of the destination that placed control firmly out of my hands, that were now slowly losing circulation, tangled up in my shirt. I was blinded by it and couldnt see. This was not about seeing, but being, really. I thought she was going to offer to help, but no. This was my struggle to fight through, and when I had finally disentangled myself from the mess of cotton/poly blend, she lay there, smiling on the edge of the bed watching. Those eyes didnt miss anything. Her mouth was curling into a careful smile this was about control, see. Those who can, teach. Those who cant, preach. I had long extolled the virtues of control who has it, who wants it. I had never given it up. And she was as patient with me as a kindergarten teacher, reminding me of how much I didnt know. She was a careful instructor. I thought myself a high and mighty minister of control and she was teaching me differently. It was time to walk the walk or get off the road altogether.
I removed my undershirt, wondering vaguely if the goose-bumps were from the languid air or something else. My underwear made a puddle on the floor around my feet, and I stood there, trembling. Waiting for
something. She grinned in that evil grin, pulled a blanket off the bed and recovered me, wrapping me up in the warm wool and the warmer embrace of her arms. there you go, love. That wasnt so hard
was it?
It would seem I had a few lessons to teach her, after all.
New prompts:
underneath the second skin
behind the eyes
exploring the underland