feeling by braille
She places the book she is reading down and slides her foot up her calf, enjoying the feeling of smooth skin. There were no nicks and cuts this morning, and the baby oil after her shower still lingered, keeping friction firmly at bay.
"How does a brain recognize it's our own touch versus someone else's?" she wonders. "Is there specificity to skin and its grooves? Is it something electromagnetic in the air around us, like an aura that identifies the external pressure against our bodies as foreign? Why does it hurt less when you pull off the Band-Aid yourself? For that matter why can't you tickle your own feet?"
All of these questions are far too deep for a Friday afternoon, when the sun is shining, and breeze is from the west and warm. Her mind wanders—as always, to where it shouldn't. Fuck it if her own touch was the only thing she felt on her legs these days, not to mention other places.
The Pottery Barn catalog has this beautiful teakwood chaise on its back cover that's made for two. She closes her eyes and pictures it on a deck, where the breeze from the west now comes off the ocean. She inhales and pretends she can smell it, and nearly does, much like the lifelike painting of an ice cream cone can look so real you want to reach out and grab it.
She wants to grab… what? Life? This she does, albeit she can't really hold on. She has to settle for each time it comes around, always reaching for that brass ring. But there's no such thing as a free ride. Not that she paid a high price; in fact, she has netted much for her work and sacrifices. It's the free ride that actually comes at a great cost.
So her mind wanders. And in her mind she is pressed into the cushion of the teakwood double chaise, by pressure most definitely not her own. She doesn't need an aura to tell; every neuron is firing at the speed of light, blinding her in the form of sweet kisses all over her face, lips, and neck, and she squirms under his hips. She uses her fingertips to play across his back.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barks, and she opens her eyes, remembering she is outside. Any guilt is beaten back down before it can manifest; misguided it can wreak havoc on her ability to cope. It get so hard sometimes, hard to be understanding and give love when she gets so little back; when her sins are dredged up every three or four months and fed to her like castor oil until she wants to vomit. Every time she finds herself at the top of the hill, she sees her husband back at the bottom, arms folded in an eternal pout. If only she could send him to his room like she does with her other children.
"Come down when you're ready to act like a grown-up." She thinks, and laughs.
She takes another turn on the merry-go-round. At least the music is good.
*^*^*^*^*^
I bet you'll never come here again; reading what I wrote here probably scarred you for life (as if I haven't already.) I had no choice but to do it that way. I thought it brilliant actually. I had Lisa take it down the next chance she got. I'm going to burn in that special hell for it, as "pro" likes to say. I hope you do though, come back. I promise not to ache on and on all the time, just prose. 'k?
"How does a brain recognize it's our own touch versus someone else's?" she wonders. "Is there specificity to skin and its grooves? Is it something electromagnetic in the air around us, like an aura that identifies the external pressure against our bodies as foreign? Why does it hurt less when you pull off the Band-Aid yourself? For that matter why can't you tickle your own feet?"
All of these questions are far too deep for a Friday afternoon, when the sun is shining, and breeze is from the west and warm. Her mind wanders—as always, to where it shouldn't. Fuck it if her own touch was the only thing she felt on her legs these days, not to mention other places.
The Pottery Barn catalog has this beautiful teakwood chaise on its back cover that's made for two. She closes her eyes and pictures it on a deck, where the breeze from the west now comes off the ocean. She inhales and pretends she can smell it, and nearly does, much like the lifelike painting of an ice cream cone can look so real you want to reach out and grab it.
She wants to grab… what? Life? This she does, albeit she can't really hold on. She has to settle for each time it comes around, always reaching for that brass ring. But there's no such thing as a free ride. Not that she paid a high price; in fact, she has netted much for her work and sacrifices. It's the free ride that actually comes at a great cost.
So her mind wanders. And in her mind she is pressed into the cushion of the teakwood double chaise, by pressure most definitely not her own. She doesn't need an aura to tell; every neuron is firing at the speed of light, blinding her in the form of sweet kisses all over her face, lips, and neck, and she squirms under his hips. She uses her fingertips to play across his back.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barks, and she opens her eyes, remembering she is outside. Any guilt is beaten back down before it can manifest; misguided it can wreak havoc on her ability to cope. It get so hard sometimes, hard to be understanding and give love when she gets so little back; when her sins are dredged up every three or four months and fed to her like castor oil until she wants to vomit. Every time she finds herself at the top of the hill, she sees her husband back at the bottom, arms folded in an eternal pout. If only she could send him to his room like she does with her other children.
"Come down when you're ready to act like a grown-up." She thinks, and laughs.
She takes another turn on the merry-go-round. At least the music is good.
*^*^*^*^*^
I bet you'll never come here again; reading what I wrote here probably scarred you for life (as if I haven't already.) I had no choice but to do it that way. I thought it brilliant actually. I had Lisa take it down the next chance she got. I'm going to burn in that special hell for it, as "pro" likes to say. I hope you do though, come back. I promise not to ache on and on all the time, just prose. 'k?
posted by Sabine at 2:29 PM
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