Mlle Hazelwood (Home)

It’s not just the animal body I want, the mathematics of sex, the coupling; I want another heart, an extra one, a contrabassoon to echo my everyday pulse. It’s not my imagination. I hear it there, beating inside me. My bones pop and creak in their sockets.

As I dangle the dry sheets over the Laundromat’s metal table, I realize that I’ve never really dated before. I’ve always been transparent: approach me and you see inside. Touch me and I will open, like a door made of rice paper, light and careless. It’s difficult to remember the beginnings of things; was there always this dithering back and forth, this wondering, this not-knowing?
…
Now I have to weigh everything: to call or not to call. To wait three days, five days, six. To ask everyone who might know him for information, to take this information and form a strategic plan. I shave my legs and my underarms, I make an appointment for a haircut, a manicure, all of which will make no difference if nothing is bound to happen. I don’t know if anything will happen, but I plan for it anyway. I think about condoms, and blush, and wonder if he will buy any, wonder where they are in the store, how much they cost these days. I wonder about the weight of a man’s hands on my shoulders, on my hair.