A letter to the girl who slept on my couch
December 16, 2002
written by Ellen Exacto
It isn't my place to say anything, so i don't.
You are a guest of my roommate, an old friend from high school days past. I'd hear about you, your trials, your demons, your talent, your pretty face and pleasing artist's nature.
We'd met once, at a music festival in Seattle. You were wearing all black and enormous blue sunglasses. You are lovely, dark hair covering half of your chiseled face, a droopy hairstyle full of body, pale skin, a line of black over your eye lids, a look freshly vintage and eternally hip. You are kind and bright and your art is quite good.
We go out. You eat a can of ravioli on the walk downtown, then disappeared into the bathroom for seven minutes. Your boyfriend and i order sandwiches and fries. You order coffee and fiddle with the drawings that are always by your side, tracing and shading your pictures of barely clad women, dominatrixes and super heroes. You fuss over then, about how wonderful they are, how much you would like to have someone like that.
I knew then.
Confirmed again and again. Said boyfriend pushes you to eat some fries from his plate, you relent and devour quickly, and again disappear to the restroom. At resturaunts you drink caffeine, and when you drink alcohol you can't control your bladder. You squat on the porch, pale slight frame wrapped in a blanket, and smoke cheap cigarettes. You are active and talkative and charming and never meet my eyes full on. You throw yourself into cleaning our stinky rotting kitchen and then bake a cake, which you don't eat but feed the boyfriend with long slim fingers.
I've seen this dance performed before. I can almost hear you counting burnt calories with each step.
You fill me with emotion. You are in my dreams now, my waking dreams, the things i think about on the long walks to town. I do not long for you sexually.
Fantasy One: I own a juice bar down town. You are perpetually sitting on a stool by the counter, a tropical scarf in your hair. I make you special concoctions to ease you back to eating. The juice is delicious, you drink it down. My juice bar has no bathroom. It stays down. You begin to loosen, your walls come down. You drink more juice. After a few weeks, your cheeks glisten with tears of healing and the glow of returned youthful health.
Fantasy Two: Your face against a white background. Time passes quickly, like an excellerated film. I see your face broaden, slowly, grow plump and womanly. Your eyes shine. The camera backs up. You are wearing a plain blue dress and white sneakers. You twirl. You love your body.
Fantasy Three: You are the curvy super hero super vixen come alive from your sketch pad. You are strong as any man, but do not feel badly that many are intimidated by you. You need no one else. Your poise and confidence astounds citizens and confounds evil doers. Your greatest joy is standing watch over scores of school children as the walk to and from school, occasionally giving piggy back rides to three or four kindergartners at a time.
I want to grab you as you are leaving and tell you about your dream self. I want to tie you to the stove and cook you stick to your ribs food. I want to feed you fresh grapes.
I want to scream that your pain, your self hatred reflects my own tenfold, and will you please either eat the damded fruits of life or get the hell out of my apartment?
but instead i just look up from my breakfast and ask you to take care of yourselves
"Take care of yourselves."
Plural. I include the boyfriend, too.
Take care of yourself. Both of you.
Ellen
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