and this, this is the last shovel of dirt
I walk out of the bedroom, stark, my pale naked skin gleaming in the light from the warm tall lamp. I’d stood in there for half an hour, running lotion over myself, elbows, knees, feet. Making sure all rough places were smooth and pliant. Pressing all the scratchy bumpy swathes of skin to gentle silken expanses.
I walk out of the bedroom, stark, naked, naked pale skin, my shins bruised due to my interminable clumsiness, round purple shadows. Nipples wide and pink, tipped up and out from the fervent moments spent in the bedroom teasing and pinching them to what I hope are sweet, suckable points.
I lean in the doorway, watching his back as he types frenetically, his face lit by the sterile white glow of the computer screen.
Hey, I say.
Hey, he says, without turning around.
I try to arrange my body in the doorway of the bedroom in the most attractive pose possible, making sure to put my leg to one side so it looks thinner and, I imagine, sexier.
I wait. He doesn’t turn.
What are you doing? I say.
Just playing this game, he says, his fingers drumming on the arrow keys.
Oh, I say. Fun. He doesn’t answer.
I sigh and go back into the bedroom, restless, spray myself with what I think is the sexiest perfume I have. Rub my nipples again. Inspect them.
I regroup. I walk out once more, this time with my short black robe settled around my curves.
Hey, I said again.
What? he says. Hang on a minute. He tack-tacks on the keys, clicking the mouse in a rattatatt like a tiny machine gun.
I wait, but I feel suddenly cold, even covered up, and I can feel my arousal draining away, leaving a cold lump of anger in its place.
Hey, I say for the third time, more insistently.
He says hang on, clicks and then mutters into his headset, I gotta go for a minute. Be right back.
He finally turns, eyes taking in my cold, clutched up demeanor.
I let my robe fall open, widely, exposing my breasts and everything else.
Come to bed, I say.
He smiles at me. It irks me. It’s the smile of someone who isn’t turned on, the smile of someone who has other things to do. I’ll come to bed in a while, he says, still smiling that condescending smile.
I can’t help myself. Desperate. You don’t want to come now? I ask, letting the word come roll around in my mouth sensuously before placing it in the air. I drop my robe completely, letting it fall to the floor.
He laughs. He laughs like this is a joke we’re both in on, a chuckle. I’ll be in there when I’m done. He turns back to his love, the glowing face.
I stand still for a moment, and then, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid standing there naked, lean down and pick up my robe, shove my arms back through the sleeves. I go back to the bedroom and find the ugliest, thickest pajamas I have. I put on underwear. Thick sweatpants. Socks. A long sleeved tee shirt with a tank top on underneath. A sweater with a hood. I even pick out a sports bra to wear to bed, covering over my pushed out nipples and the swell of my breasts. I cover myself up all the way. I turn out all the lights and let the door swing shut, watching his head and shoulders through the crack where the wood is too warped to let the door close. I climb into bed, covering myself with the sheets and blankets even though I’m so covered in clothes already.
The weight of the clothes. The weight of the covers. The intense and awful pressing on my heart.
How I do I feel? I think. I put my hands between my legs and catch the heat from the frustration there.
Hot. Angry. Like a wire stretched out, in the last moment before breaking. Spit on. Degraded.
I think about how it felt to put all my clothes on. Shameful, stupid.
I notice the heat between my legs is changing and am half-sickened. How can I still feel like this after his rejection? I start to touch myself, trying to be silent, hardly moving. Working my fingers against my pants. It’s too much work.
I collapse quietly, sobbing myself to sleep, listening to the tapping on the keyboard.
When he comes to bed, six hours later, he doesn’t even try to touch me like he wants me. I keep turned firmly away, pretend I didn’t wake to him climbing in bed, and listen to his easy breathing next to me. Alone.
I walk out of the bedroom, stark, naked, naked pale skin, my shins bruised due to my interminable clumsiness, round purple shadows. Nipples wide and pink, tipped up and out from the fervent moments spent in the bedroom teasing and pinching them to what I hope are sweet, suckable points.
I lean in the doorway, watching his back as he types frenetically, his face lit by the sterile white glow of the computer screen.
Hey, I say.
Hey, he says, without turning around.
I try to arrange my body in the doorway of the bedroom in the most attractive pose possible, making sure to put my leg to one side so it looks thinner and, I imagine, sexier.
I wait. He doesn’t turn.
What are you doing? I say.
Just playing this game, he says, his fingers drumming on the arrow keys.
Oh, I say. Fun. He doesn’t answer.
I sigh and go back into the bedroom, restless, spray myself with what I think is the sexiest perfume I have. Rub my nipples again. Inspect them.
I regroup. I walk out once more, this time with my short black robe settled around my curves.
Hey, I said again.
What? he says. Hang on a minute. He tack-tacks on the keys, clicking the mouse in a rattatatt like a tiny machine gun.
I wait, but I feel suddenly cold, even covered up, and I can feel my arousal draining away, leaving a cold lump of anger in its place.
Hey, I say for the third time, more insistently.
He says hang on, clicks and then mutters into his headset, I gotta go for a minute. Be right back.
He finally turns, eyes taking in my cold, clutched up demeanor.
I let my robe fall open, widely, exposing my breasts and everything else.
Come to bed, I say.
He smiles at me. It irks me. It’s the smile of someone who isn’t turned on, the smile of someone who has other things to do. I’ll come to bed in a while, he says, still smiling that condescending smile.
I can’t help myself. Desperate. You don’t want to come now? I ask, letting the word come roll around in my mouth sensuously before placing it in the air. I drop my robe completely, letting it fall to the floor.
He laughs. He laughs like this is a joke we’re both in on, a chuckle. I’ll be in there when I’m done. He turns back to his love, the glowing face.
I stand still for a moment, and then, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid standing there naked, lean down and pick up my robe, shove my arms back through the sleeves. I go back to the bedroom and find the ugliest, thickest pajamas I have. I put on underwear. Thick sweatpants. Socks. A long sleeved tee shirt with a tank top on underneath. A sweater with a hood. I even pick out a sports bra to wear to bed, covering over my pushed out nipples and the swell of my breasts. I cover myself up all the way. I turn out all the lights and let the door swing shut, watching his head and shoulders through the crack where the wood is too warped to let the door close. I climb into bed, covering myself with the sheets and blankets even though I’m so covered in clothes already.
The weight of the clothes. The weight of the covers. The intense and awful pressing on my heart.
How I do I feel? I think. I put my hands between my legs and catch the heat from the frustration there.
Hot. Angry. Like a wire stretched out, in the last moment before breaking. Spit on. Degraded.
I think about how it felt to put all my clothes on. Shameful, stupid.
I notice the heat between my legs is changing and am half-sickened. How can I still feel like this after his rejection? I start to touch myself, trying to be silent, hardly moving. Working my fingers against my pants. It’s too much work.
I collapse quietly, sobbing myself to sleep, listening to the tapping on the keyboard.
When he comes to bed, six hours later, he doesn’t even try to touch me like he wants me. I keep turned firmly away, pretend I didn’t wake to him climbing in bed, and listen to his easy breathing next to me. Alone.