by Tammy Fourteen
Therese was from France. She wore high heels and a sash. I conveniently lost my contact lens when she asked me to dance. I covered the floor with my fingers stretched out, down on my hands and knees. Therese whispered in my ear, "Freeze!" I feigned my best Helen Keller as she desperately scraped her name into my palm. "Shut up and leave me alone!" I wrote back. "Oh . . . you love me," she gasped, grabbing my wrist to shake it. The deal had been sealed.
Therese came from a long line of coke addicts. Her mother in particular snorted a plentitude of profits, being the manager of an upscale interior design firm that specialized in window treatments. Her father was the editor of a fashion magazine that no longer exists. Therese always whined in French, "Hunx tray shlepse", which meant "Eat me, eat me." Personally, I think Therese battled with an anorexia. Wanting her father's attention, she'd play high fashion model, judging my weight in comparison to hers (everyone know muscle weighs more than fat), and scoffing at my kudos to the cook. I let her play that game for years. I just didn't care. Being from hippie-type parents, I never wanted any part in the fashion industry and secretly hoped that Therese would someday join me out on the farm.
I'll never forget the time Therese touched me, intellectually, by proclaiming out loud, "If there'd never been a case of original sin, the world wouldn't need me." She pulled the sheet tight around her enormous forehead like an Arab. Grease from her night-time skin treatment stained the pillows. I looked at a stain and thought about how she always seemed to ruin moments such as this with her vanity. "I didn't know you were religious," I said. She gave me that look, you know the one. Her chin is raised, her eyes slit at half mast and her lips curled at the edges. She shook her head at me. "I'm talking about the history of sexuality. I'm talking about me and my place as . . . philogynist. God you are so. . . ." But, I stopped her, my finger tapping her lip. I told her, "Oh, I know I'm difficult. But this time I really do understand." She reached for me and I laughed inside. I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about, although I knew it meant something to her. It comforted me, her thinking I understood.
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