Sins from a Paintbox (Part I)

Do you know what it feels like…

To wonder if your hair really touched that tickly part of your shoulder blades and looks as good as it feels like when you lie on your stomach, naked hands spread across the width of the flower-streaked bed resembling Christ asleep-waiting-with a cross nailed somewhere into Her spinal cord?

The weight of which drives into you as you stand in a predominantly Muslim area eyeing pieces of beef being rolled into moist chunks of soft bread that cottons your mouth as the spicy meat burns in your stomach and leaves you salivating for more (and more; some more). The baba at the counter counts out change, chanting numbers slowly, trying to keep his hands steady and his red, watery eyes focussed while you watch out for the vague trace of someone familiar from the corner of your eye.

Shame tickles Her armpits as She lies with Her head sunk deep in the pillow surprised She can still breathe.

Two minutes.

That’s exactly the time it takes you to realise that this spunky, little dark hang-out you pick for a date with a poor, confused, lovely androgyny makes you happy because liquor feels nice after the first-burn and everything is light and breezy like his jokes on backstabbers and sinners. The chocolate glazes the roof of your mouth with its cheapness and the waiter tries really hard to ignore you but it doesn’t matter. He whistles his loud, cheap whistle as your raise your hand to beckon.

She tries to move without shifting much, the fictitious nails move in a little deeper. They punch her in like a million.

Fifteen minutes.

Is the time the guilt lasted for, as you watched your mother looking away sad and confused, unable to understand why you just did what you did. Everything is slow and jaundiced by remorse now, but what is to be done is to be done. You feel so bad, so-ho bad you cry all through the cab ride back home, retching into your tiny hands.

The Christ, she shifts her loincloth to scratch between her legs.