leaning in for one more cut.
. . .
Greg left the next morning after a breakfast of saltines, stale cheese, and some uninspired conversation. I washed out the
salt-encrusted Caesar glasses and then vomited bright pink bits of food into the sink, realizing that for all Greg knew, I was a dancer, not someone who understood the complicated mass of networks and systems of the body, and this suited me just fine.
I decided not to leave the apartment. Troublesome things like Greg's body, like my voracious appetite for it and french fries,
were out there in the world. Besides, I had wasted valuable time by spending the evening with him and needed every second
I could get for more studying. I thought about lovely, lonely Thuy and cringed, wondering what he would think about my escapade
with an American varsity-football star.
— You goddamn slut.
But after a couple of hours I felt better and fried up some sardines and drank lemon water. When Susan came home three days
later, it was still hot. She found me in my underwear and bra, wearing a pair of papier-mâché wings pasted with white feathers.
I know it's absurd and I can't remember the logic of that outfit, what I had been thinking or feeling when I strapped on those
wings that someone had abandoned in our hall closet after a costume party. I remember only that I hadn't been eating much
and that I had begun to black out periodically. Perched on the edge of the window, I must have looked like some ancient pterodactyl
hybrid creature to Susan, because she started when she came into the dark apartment and saw me smoking a cigarette in the
windowsill. She stood there, arms crossed, in the dark room illuminated only by the orange street lamp. Somehow I realized
that she knew all about Greg, about how wasted and low I felt about it all.
"Hot, eh?" I ventured.
"Yeah. What are you doing?"
"Oh, nothing . . . hanging out."
"I see that. When was the last time you ate, G ? Or slept?"
I took a long drag of my cigarette and stared at it in my hand—how had it gotten there? Had I lit it? How had I managed that?
I suddenly felt dizzy. I fell off the edge and onto the hard radiator, taking a tablecloth and vase down with me. Then, like
some disgraced, unskilled Cirque du Soleil dancer, I covered my semi-naked body with my hands, curled into a ball, and started
crying when Susan came to my side.
"Stop moving," she barked. "You're covered with glass." Indeed, my face, hands, and legs were bleeding. My exoskeleton had
failed me. It didn't matter what I ate or didn't eat, I still wasn't safe from the indignities of the body.
I was terrified suddenly, but not of Susan, who had started picking pieces of glass out of my elbows and hair. Susan could
not know that any insults she hurled at me would pale in comparison to the abuse she could levy. I knew then that there was a great purge ahead; admonishments, elaborate systems of torture would be inflicted. She was screaming now, steadily, high-pitched.
— Exhibitionist! Slut!
The fall had cracked her mouth open and dislodged her raspy voice.
Susan unstrapped the wings from my back, took a blanket from the couch, wrapped me up in it, and dragged me to bed.
"You're pretty strung out, eh, kid?"
I looked at her.
"I'm sorry."
"It's OK, G. I forgive you," she said softly, patting my face down with a towel before going back to the living room to make
a long phone call.
Fear rippled through me in waves, my body shook, I was almost incapacitated, almost. I clawed at the covers. I was in trouble,
in deep, deep shit. I hadn't been in so much trouble with her since the week before, when I ate almost an entire layer of Pot of Gold chocolates at a wine-and-cheese party for the Humanities
Department and she made me pace my bedroom all night to burn off all the calories. Yet there was a tiny part of me that was
proud that I had defied her. I'd proved that I could chew the head off any man who came looking for me.
. . .
Greg left the next morning after a breakfast of saltines, stale cheese, and some uninspired conversation. I washed out the
salt-encrusted Caesar glasses and then vomited bright pink bits of food into the sink, realizing that for all Greg knew, I was a dancer, not someone who understood the complicated mass of networks and systems of the body, and this suited me just fine.
I decided not to leave the apartment. Troublesome things like Greg's body, like my voracious appetite for it and french fries,
were out there in the world. Besides, I had wasted valuable time by spending the evening with him and needed every second
I could get for more studying. I thought about lovely, lonely Thuy and cringed, wondering what he would think about my escapade
with an American varsity-football star.
— You goddamn slut.
But after a couple of hours I felt better and fried up some sardines and drank lemon water. When Susan came home three days
later, it was still hot. She found me in my underwear and bra, wearing a pair of papier-mâché wings pasted with white feathers.
I know it's absurd and I can't remember the logic of that outfit, what I had been thinking or feeling when I strapped on those
wings that someone had abandoned in our hall closet after a costume party. I remember only that I hadn't been eating much
and that I had begun to black out periodically. Perched on the edge of the window, I must have looked like some ancient pterodactyl
hybrid creature to Susan, because she started when she came into the dark apartment and saw me smoking a cigarette in the
windowsill. She stood there, arms crossed, in the dark room illuminated only by the orange street lamp. Somehow I realized
that she knew all about Greg, about how wasted and low I felt about it all.
"Hot, eh?" I ventured.
"Yeah. What are you doing?"
"Oh, nothing . . . hanging out."
"I see that. When was the last time you ate, G ? Or slept?"
I took a long drag of my cigarette and stared at it in my hand—how had it gotten there? Had I lit it? How had I managed that?
I suddenly felt dizzy. I fell off the edge and onto the hard radiator, taking a tablecloth and vase down with me. Then, like
some disgraced, unskilled Cirque du Soleil dancer, I covered my semi-naked body with my hands, curled into a ball, and started
crying when Susan came to my side.
"Stop moving," she barked. "You're covered with glass." Indeed, my face, hands, and legs were bleeding. My exoskeleton had
failed me. It didn't matter what I ate or didn't eat, I still wasn't safe from the indignities of the body.
I was terrified suddenly, but not of Susan, who had started picking pieces of glass out of my elbows and hair. Susan could
not know that any insults she hurled at me would pale in comparison to the abuse she could levy. I knew then that there was a great purge ahead; admonishments, elaborate systems of torture would be inflicted. She was screaming now, steadily, high-pitched.
— Exhibitionist! Slut!
The fall had cracked her mouth open and dislodged her raspy voice.
Susan unstrapped the wings from my back, took a blanket from the couch, wrapped me up in it, and dragged me to bed.
"You're pretty strung out, eh, kid?"
I looked at her.
"I'm sorry."
"It's OK, G. I forgive you," she said softly, patting my face down with a towel before going back to the living room to make
a long phone call.
Fear rippled through me in waves, my body shook, I was almost incapacitated, almost. I clawed at the covers. I was in trouble,
in deep, deep shit. I hadn't been in so much trouble with her since the week before, when I ate almost an entire layer of Pot of Gold chocolates at a wine-and-cheese party for the Humanities
Department and she made me pace my bedroom all night to burn off all the calories. Yet there was a tiny part of me that was
proud that I had defied her. I'd proved that I could chew the head off any man who came looking for me.
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