passingpanacea

[passingpanacea]

Tomasz Winiarski

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“He’s a dyslexic janitor, it meant nothing.”

I studied his face. The statement seemed uncharacteristically harsh. I’d only know him a week (and two days) but felt like I had a decent grasp on his base personality.

What hurt had he been subjected to? What lives had he led? There were some signs. I already knew he didn’t like when I touched his wrists or his neck in a certain way - it was very specific - and he preferred me to walk in front. The quiet nods, the firm orders, the watching. He seemed to enjoy watching me squirm under his gaze, begging to know what he was looking at me like that for, what he wanted from me.

Finally, this morning, I reminded him, “The night we met, you asked me if there was anything I wanted from you, and you made me answer carefully.” He nodded sleepily and pulled me closer to him, his hand lazy on my back.

“Is that a question? Or are you asking me the same thing?” Impatient motherfucker, I thought. Another way of having the upper hand was to push my thoughts out of me. He had an uncanny way of watching me until I started blabbering - spilling everything in my head - as if he was conducting an experiment. Afterwards he’d sit back and half smile, admiring his handiwork.

“Yes, it’s a question, because I didn’t ask that night. Is there anything in particular you want from me?”

He rubbed his swollen eyes and said, “I mean, this is pretty fucking nice. I don’t have any wants right now. But I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Sounds good. Same.”

“Okay, now just one more and then I am getting up.”

“One more what? Snug?”

“Yes.”

I lay on his chest and he rubbed my back, his eyes still closed, breathing slowly in the morning light. I surveyed the damages of our night together. Menstrual blood and semen were spattered all over my sheets and duvet and pillows, some on the wall. There was blood on the floor in the kitchen last night. He thought that was cool - I could tell by the way he pointed it out in the dark - but I still cleaned it up immediately, on my knees.

He was never clean when he came to me. Always smelling like wood and oil and motorcycles, his once white tank top now almost brown and starched from sweat.

But he could dress in anything, smell of anything, look like anything, and I would still let him do anything to me. Something about his being caught me that night a week (and two days) ago. I couldn’t describe what it was exactly, but it caught me like a fly in the web tattooed on his elbow.

I read the one on his collarbone, “Taylor,” crossed out in red ink. The one on his wrist, “Buy the ticket, Take the ride,” my personal favorite. The massive skull on his chest with a snake weaving out of its eye sockets made me smile a little.

I wanted to remember them all.

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He said

If I were here alone

That signpost glowing hazy blue

From the bulb across the street

Would be the most interesting thing to look at

And I would be staring at it while I smoke this cigarette.

But you’re here, so that is no longer

The best most interesting thing.

So I choose to look at you.

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winning

It was my second cigarette of the evening - I shouldn't have had a single one, because the cough erupting from my lungs every few minutes sounded horrendous, but once beer was involved I could never resist. I hid from the rain under the awning.

He emerged from the door and without looking up, took the step down and lit his cigarette, facing the street.

What's your name?

He turned slowly, hands still raised to his lips, lighting a Marlboro.

I said what's your name? He squinted at me through his aviator lenses and replied Ian.

I'm Isobel. Good "I" names. Unusual.

Yeah, don't meet many.

I could hear his accent immediately and the rest of his figure began taking shape - the dark grime under his nails, a chest tattoo, his blonde hair and beard stiffened with grease, strong forearms, freckled from the sun.

The banter was natural and sexy. He spoke low, almost a growl, and would often pause to watch my reaction. Not just wait for it, but watch the expressions on my face as if he were studying for later. Be serious! I kept repeating, because every time he made me laugh - which was often - my hacking cough would come back and it hurt but it was worth it.

We ended up in a doubles match of pool not ten minutes later. I picked out two cues and brought them to him. Choose.

He put them on the table and rolled them each with his palm, leaning closer to decide, squinting again through his lenses.

This one. He was so sure. Not just of pool cues, but of everything. He broke, our opponents played badly, but he wasn't a shark, either.

We are going to win, by the way, he said into my ear while my girl friend sunk another ball.

Knock on wood I tapped the table next to me.

I'm not talking about this match, he replied, and then just looked at me for a while. I felt comfortable with the eye contact, with his lips barely smiling, but smiling nonetheless.

He disappeared for an hour after that. I looked for him outside - admitted defeat, laughed with my friends that he was a ghost.

When he emerged from the darkness next to his old motorbike, I almost gasped. I thought you left.

Nah, I just got a call from a friend. I didn't care if it was too mysterious or weird or that he was probably a drug dealer or something. I was just glad he was back.

Have another drink with me, I said, and he followed me inside. I could have stayed at that table with him for the rest of the night, but it was three in the morning and the bartender was turning on the lights.

[passingpanacea]

Flower Farm, Jamaica Jodi Cobb 1983

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I said, “I’m sorry, baby,” and he turned to face me. I hadn’t looked into his eyes in months, said his name, been in the same room. Now we were in bed. I’m not sure what I apologized for.

He said nothing, gently reaching over his strong white hand to my side. I saw the muscles in his forearm moved as he began running his thumb down my ribs. Bump, bump, bump. Then again, with slightly more pressure.

“Baby?” I searched his eyes for feeling, but they were darker blue than I remembered and I found none. Slightly more pressure, it kept running. Then more, until his thumb dug between each bone, purposefully. It didn’t glide anymore. It pushed.

“That hurts.” He squeezed and dug in further and further and didn’t say a word. I tried to pull away. “Please, stop!” He smiled, not at me, just into the dark. And then I woke up.

[passingpanacea]

I just found out the Queen is dead. Sitting in the garden at work, watching the bees fuck on the cosmos flowers.

Pink Moon just came on the speaker. I can barely hear it because the bartenders keep the music down when they're setting up.

It's September 8th and I've already planned out the rest of the month in events and schedules so it feels like it's already finished.

Another year back here in Chattanooga.

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Jeremiah’s friend got shot at point blank range on the subway in New York on Sunday. He died.

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Anne Sexton, Transformations; from 'Rapunzel'

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He doesn’t want me,

he wants to look at me, behind glass he wants me to reach out and smear blood

but not so it gets on his clothes, not so it’s still visible when he gets home.

— Phoebe Stuckes, from “Marshmallows,” Platinum Blonde

[passingpanacea]

Amanda Jasnowski Pascual

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François Ollivier

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Fred Lahache

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shirt

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burn

He repeated the sentence more loudly, his voice low and rough. Even in the dim light of our front porch, I could see his blue eyes searching my face impatiently. I took a quick pull from the cigarette that I had been compulsively flicking and exhaled. 

Isobel. I asked you a question. Do you believe me?

I couldn’t decide what to believe. Months and years of back and forth with this man had manifested a blinding skepticism inside of me that I never thought possible. I wanted so badly to believe him—to give in fully, without doubt. I hit the cigarette again and met his eyes.

Impatience had turned to concern. His pillowy lips pulled into a frown. His right hand gripped his knee so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. I studied the scar between his thumb and forefinger—a savage burn from a sheet pan in the kitchen where I fell in love with him. The night that it happened, we swallowed tequila and snorted coke until he was too obliterated to remember the pain. I forgot about the wound as well, because as we woke to familiar throbbing heads and dry mouths in the morning, I still reached for his hand. He literally yelped.

Days later, the burn turned green. I remember thinking it was the same color as the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars I used to stick on my ceiling as a child—an unnatural color for skin. He didn’t go to the doctor until the day the infection seeped onto his pillowcase.

I do believe you.

He broke into an enormous grin. He stood up so quickly that the chair scraped loudly on the porch deck.

Shh! I giggled. It was around two in the morning and our roommate was sleeping in the front room.

Come here, baby! He grabbed my face with both hands and pulled me up to meet him. The way he kissed me, I thought my heart would be sucked through my throat into his mouth. He held my face so hard I nearly lifted off the ground. 

That’s all I want, baby. You are safe with me. I promise you. I need you to know how serious I am about all this. I am so sure. I am so, so sure. No more guessing.

He kissed me over and over—on my head and my cheeks and my neck and my shoulders and back to my mouth till I had to break away for air.

We stood there, beaming at each other, breathing heavily in the September rain. I couldn’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm. I shook my head and wrapped my arms around his waist.

Let’s go inside.