I
had said,
“Don’t
force me to reveal the ugly origami that is my heart.
The
space it fits into is cramped and bloody
And
I am not sure I could get it back inside.”
But
you had insisted.
And
then I had revealed myself, against my will.
Against my better judgment.
We
sat staring at it, the slimy shape in my hands, purple and red, shiny in the
late-night
mood lighting of the restaurant. It began staining the tablecloth at the edge
of the table where I placed my hands.
And
the smell.
I
hadn’t expected that.
Iron
rich blood, and something faintly sweet.
“Put
it away, I can’t stand it”
you
said.
And
then you said,
“What
should we do with it?”
I
cradled it, cupped in my hands and looked from you and back to my hands, to the
visceral reminder of what I had done.
“You
need to leave,” I said.
“I
will figure it out.”
You
were silent, and at some point you left.
And
I sat there for a while, feeling the outside of it start to cool, and to
harden.
That
is, to scab.
I
knew that action was required, but my hands were occupied. I rocked it slowly
back and forth, trying to see if I noticed a difference. It was just a little
unpleasant, and I grimaced, and then reached for my napkin. I gently rolled the
heart onto one hand, and spread the napkin out over the other hand with a
flicking motion. Slowly, I rolled my heart onto the napkin on my hand, and then
bringing the four corners together I made a bundle that I could carry.
It
was heavier than I thought it would be, and I looked around to see if anyone in
this busy restaurant had noticed.
They
hadn’t, and I headed for the door.
The
night air was warm, and I walked towards my car.
I
felt ill about my bloody hands touching the steering wheel of my car, but the
blood was mostly dry by now. I made a rubbing motion with my hand, fingers
curling against palm, and a dusting of dried blood sifted down.
Should
I go to the hospital? The stitches alone would be a fortune.
I
drove, poorly, as though it didn’t matter. My heart rested, damp, in the
depression where my legs met. I may have run a red light.
Arriving
at my house, I thought
"This
is a morning problem; I need sunshine and daylight to think this through."
So
I went inside.
It
was a fragile feeling, being both the heart and the vessel. I was tired, and
instead of facing the mirror to undress, I turned my back.
I
put on the softest cotton shirt I owned, still holding the now stained bundle
by the four corners. I switched it from one hand to another to pull on the
shirt.
I
pulled back the covers, climbed into my bed and spread the napkin out, like a
picnic.
A
feast.
I
looked at it as I lay on my side, and felt the place inside me longing to be
filled.
