Is this what you want? he asked, and I said yes, so he took off his skin for me. He was beautiful, shining red organs and crisp bones. I stepped forward to embrace him. I felt his naked wet muscles against my arms. This happened just before dinner. He waited at the table, fresh as the new cut of lamb I bought at market that day. I carried our plates over and poured wine and watched his tendons twitch as he moved fork and knife. Each bite he lifted to his mouth was a delicate rumble through arm, hand, and jaw. When he stood to clear the table I wiped the tender blood from his seat before he noticed what his exposed body had left behind. He hung the skin in a closet, taut on a wire hanger next to suit jackets and ties. Sometimes in the morning, through the slit of my eyes in bed, I saw him lift the skin from the closet and hold it to his frame as if thinking, is this what I feel like wearing today? Is this the correct mood? Then, remembering, he slipped the skin back into the closet and removed a shirt instead. People commented on his different appearance but they couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Have you lost weight? they’d ask, scratching their chin. In a way, he’d say. Smiling a red smile at me.
Posted on: Thu, 22 Jan 2015 12:21:26 +0000
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