Short Story: Deep Sleep

She stood on the tips of her toes attempting to see as much as she could of her naked body reflected from his bathroom mirror. She traced the curve of her left breast with the tip of her middle finger from her right hand. She watched as her breast awoke. Is this what he sees, she asked herself. As she raised her left arm towards the ceiling she examined the stream-like curve connecting her underarm and the bottom of her hip, leading into her thighs. Is this what he runs his fingers by, she asked herself proudly. She reached for his cotton t-shirt. Diving into it she made her way out of the bathroom. She looked around his studio apartment and saw that it was still without him. Barefoot, she made her way to his love seat; dark amber leather with satin cushions. She sat herself on the right side, closest to his bed and began to remember her first night in the apartment. She had been led by an intentional drunken haze that hid her nervousness and hesitance. She aimed for a release from the tantric months between desire and diffidence masked behind corporate attire and just as long a fantasy of getting close to him, his ideas, his inspiration, his wit, his hidden warmth, contained behind book readings, lectures, late dinners, wine and lingering eye contact, both waiting for the other to make a first move, removing one of any guilt of the unknown. But on that one night, the sun set on doubt and he was free from compromise and she deaf to uncertainty. They spoke over drinks and sweaty palms when the harmless reach of her mouth towards his cheek prompted the opportunistic tilt of his chin towards her stare. The rest was inevitable. She found herself on that very same corner she now sat in, buried into the edges of those satin cushions, pressed up against the arm rest holding on to the back of his neck. She leaned in to the coffee table in front of her taking hold of the champagne bottle and pouring herself another glass. Taking a small sip she remembered how she believed to have lost her sense of taste years ago after burning her tongue on a piece of coal. Surrounded by a group of bold, bored cousins in the back yard of her uncle’s house in Connecticut, she was dared to lick a hot cluster from the barbecue. She was nine. Since then, she could swallow a pound of salt and it would have gone through her like balls of cotton. But when she met Daniel her senses awoke as if only in a deep sleep. Dinner with him had the feeling of pure gluttony. The white wooden doors of his terrace opened wide finding him on the other side as he pressed his cigarette into the ground with the tip of his foot. He entered, catching her stare and closing the doors behind him. She watched his movements as he began to ask her about her writing—what had she last written? Was she ready to let him read a page? He walked over to his kitchen and placed his cigarettes and matches on the counter. Had she read the books he handpicked for her? He continued. His blue eyes almost transparent, his slim figure calling for expansion—he walked over to his coffee table to grab a misplaced book and tucked it into his bookshelf. He had this strange way of walking with his arms away from his sides, his shoulders and elbow rising, almost floating, as if a hanger was still caught in his shirt. She sighed inside.

April 4th

Her eyes resembled large, brown olives with pupils of tired red beads floating independently in front of her face. Swollen, exhausted and revealing, she wondered if they'd ever go back to the almond shape they once were. But this happened each time she cried, and each time they'd melt right back into soft brown petals, matching her long, dark hair that she now wore in knots from all the pulling. She had just escaped from yet another argument with her mother.

At just twelve years old, Sofia found herself completely aware of the limitations and expectations of her gender. Sofia's mother had just finished listing her responsibilities around the house, including washing her ten year old brothers clothes, serving him dinner when he asked, and washing his plate when he was done. "He has two hands, he can do it himself," she said to her mother. Missing her face, her mother opted for the frustrated fist against the kitchen table. She wasn't supposed to talk back let alone refuse to do as she was told. "I did what I was told! I took care of the laundry of four brothers, I cooked for them, I cleaned, I took care of the house! Now you have to do the same!" her mother yelled. "But that's not fair!" she responded. "If he can do it himself, why should I..." she was interrupted by the sight of her mother lunging at her, reaching and grabbing her hair, pushing her towards the couch. "There's no need for that, Maria, let the girl go," pushed her step father. Her mother redirected her anger towards him. "Don't tell me how to discipline my own daughter!" she barked. Frustrated, she stomped away to her bedroom where she would lay with the covers over her head, waiting for her daughter to come over and apologize. But Sofia refused to apologize. Angry herself, she raced off to her bedroom to finish crying.

Wiping her tears, Sofia stared at her face in the mirror, examining all the anger sprawled out in red, puffy circles. How could a grown adult lack so much common sense, she asked herself in frustration. Doesn't she realize what she's doing?

The next morning, in the midst of the hustle and bustle of getting ready for school, her mother stomped around in resentment, knocking things over, slamming cabinets and doors, demanding attention to her feelings. After much persuasion by her step father and brother, she offered her mother an apology. And with a half satisfied stare and tightened lips, her mother accepted. "I need you to take care of dinner tonight. You're step father and I will be getting in late from work," she said to Sofia. Sofia nodded. "And I need you to take care of the dinner dishes for tonight," her mother said looking at Sofia's brother. Sofia and her brother both looked at each other and then looked back at their mother. She was turning away and about to walk out the door when Sofia said, "Thanks, ma'."

April 1st

You left a mark on my neck the last time we shared breakfast;
a rose colored fingerprint I wore like a jewel
for the rest of that week.

I left my sighs on the sleeve of your jacket
right after our walk from the restaurant--
I didn't even care to hide them.

A years worth of hesitation lingering
in the space between our palms
unexpectedly sharing the sweat of romance.