Every Friday, 1 artist/painter/poet/writer, letting their work speak for itself.
by Lydia Allison
The day our boy friend said yes – what a thrill! Not red, we said together, scarlet! His straight angular life inside soft silk, structured for someone other. The skirt hanging crooked with his awkwardness, concave chest wrong and beautiful in her mum’s old sewing room.
She leads him through to a bedroom she says is hers. I know it’s her parents’, though I don’t say. She touches his back in the place where shivers start on a girl. The part that squirts sparks all the way down to your heels, and up to the back of your head. And the front too. She thinks I don’t see.
We leave and make him wait, still wearing that skirt (oh!) to find our ribbons – rouge not red – to criss cross around the straight chest, waist, arse. Searching, she suggests make up. Just lipstick, I say, that one.
We can do anything. The wax smudges the corners of his straight smile as I smooth the colour with this finger. Clean cut white teeth with a small red wound caused by my heavy-handed eagerness. I use a different finger to clean it. It makes a noise. She doesn’t hear.
He’s always looking down, making his long eyelashes like short hanging curtains. Would-be elegant collarbones resemble straight shards of wood; and the skin, not soft or rough, with no give in it like we had, just tight over muscle or bone.
We leave to find something, or to excite ourselves with absence. We charge back upstairs for the pleasure of close fitting clothes, to the door – closed – and inside, just a boy.