Her swiveling arm deposits a sock on the floor.
Distance covered: Approx. 6ft.
Accuracy: Poor. She missed my face.
She sits on the bed with her legs crossed in front of her, the smooth skin from her knees downards shining pink in the light of the glowing tube in front of her, from behind me. Her toes, nails each painted a different colour, point towards me; the big toe of her left foot flicks the toe next to it repeatedly.
The sock on the floor is blue. I like blue. I always have. The nail of the little toe on her left foot is painted blue. The jeans I hold in my hand are blue. My sneakers are blue. That makes it three blue things that I’ve thought of. Four, if you include my mood. But then I’ve only just thought of it.
Her big toe keeps flicking, up and down. Again. And again. And again. And again; beautiful in its abruptness and repititiveness.
“So you liked the socks, didn’t you?”
I look up from the toes, my eyes travelling along her legs with her arms across them, to her glowing face, that rests just above her knee caps.
When in doubt, fib.
Fib. Fib. Fib. What should I say? What should I say? Should I fib? Should I flee? I can’t lie.
Her cold blue eyes cloak the flames of a thousand burning embers. Her lips curl upwards like a tight chicane that I can’t travese without slipping. Why is one so melodramatic when one is tense? I gotta get away. God, I gotta get away.
Should I end it?
“You know,” I say quietly, sternly, “as well as I do, that they were a prop. The socks were a prop.”
I can tell from her face that she’s thinking; “The Unexpected Statement That Launched A Million Moments of Self-Introspection” would be the headline in her personal newspaper, tomorrow. This is my chance to flee.
“For me. For anyone. For everyone.”
“What about your toenails?” I point towards them.
“That’s me. I do them differently because that’s what I do. I don’t do things like everyone else.”
“Do people notice them?”
“They’re a prop.”
There ain’t no easy way out
She looks away at the wall, thinking. About to sob. No, please. Please don’t sob. I think I see a tear forming, but I’m wrong. She looks back towards me with renewed fierceness, her hands squeezing her kneecaps tightly.
“So everything about me is a prop?”
“What do you think?” In all honesty, I want to tell her that I didn’t mean that. I can’t lie and say yes, but I can’t tell her no either.
“My toenails,” she says, glancing at them, and raising them upwards, “are a prop. My socks are a prop. My clothes, probably are a prop. So is my hairstyle. And my coloured hair.”
She pauses and looks right through me.
“What about you, then?”
“What do you mean?”
“Wasn’t I a prop for you?”
Like I said – there ain’t no easy way out.
(Wrote this a couple of months ago. T’was experimental and I intended to explore the style further. Didn’t think it possible, but my propensity to write – even blog- has waned further. Reading, however, is on the up, largely forced by the impending literature exams. I’m sure this will spill over into writing. Soon. Oh and, I’d appreciate some comments, even if they’re not complimentary.)