Skinny Love
By: Margorie Clemente
March 15th. I stare at the clock on Nick’s wall. The minute hand licks after the numbers lazily. This is the longest moment in history. I wriggle out from beneath him, furtively making my way to his fridge. And like a mouse, I begin to scour through the items hungrily. Butter. Ketchup. Half a head of lettuce sprouting a film of mold. Piss-colored milk. The only thing that looks safe enough to consume is that bottle of water in the back; it was never opened. This should placate the stomach rumblings that have kept me awake for the past half hour. It really is my responsibility to do something about my hunger anyway. He says that I can be such an inconvenience to him sometimes, and that includes the lack of control I have over my own body. He says, “You need to own your body. Control your own body.” God forbid I should wake Nick up before noon with my wailing stomach. I sit outside of his apartment where I finally feel that it’s safe to cry. The tears have been threatening at my lashes for days now. I’ve tried to hold it in. I tried to swallow the raw, aching lump in the back of my throat, but here the tears are, soaking the sleeves of his hoodie.
March 18th. Fighting to keep my body my own is the hardest part of being with Nick. It’s like trying to sit still on the shore at the beach and not get pummeled back down helplessly into the sand by the waves. At first it’s kind of funny. You sputter and tumble and gag on mouthfuls of water. But after several attempts the struggle can get pretty frustrating—a task you’re determined to accomplish. Once. Twice. Three times. And by the hundredth time there’s no way in hell you’re about to stop at this point because, “Damn it, I’ve tried this too many times already. I’m bound to brace myself for this next wave soon enough. I can do this. Even if it’s just ONCE.” Then there’s the other whinnying little cry inside of you, and it pleads, “Give the fuck up.” It isn’t a struggle anymore if you’re not even trying. The ocean’s laughing and the waves will just keep on coming. You’ll keep getting wet, knocked back, and swallowed into the earth again. Make sure that when you’re tackled and lying there, trembling, naked as a newborn, try to be as still as you possibly can, I think to myself. Feel Nick spilling inside of you while you disintegrate into ash. Allow yourself to crumble. Watch closely as you become eroded by the violent to and fro of a raging sea that bursts from inside of him. This is our sex life.
March 19th. I remember when I first met Nick. It was at day camp. He smelled like Marlboro, Listerine, and beer. I was 11. He was 15. I still had no idea what the hell he was doing there. He was a wicked kid—every parent’s worst nightmare. He swore. He smoked. He drank. He wore chains and smeared eyeliner beneath his emerald eyes. His nails were almost always painted black. Shoes were black. Shorts were black. Shirts were usually black. Even his hair was dyed black, but I was pretty sure that he'd also dyed it just about every color of the rainbow, styled spiked in all different angles. My father called him a devil-worshipper because he drew inverted crosses on his wrists. I almost believed him until I mustered the courage to confront Nick about it one day. I remember simply asking him if he worshipped the devil.
“Do I look like I worship the devil?” he replied. A snarky grin played across his lips.
“My daddy says you look like it.”
“Well, your daddy doesn’t seem like he knows what the fuck he’s talkin’ about.” My father had also mentioned that Nick had a strange, crazed look in his eyes.
“You’d better stay away from him,” he warned.
He might as well have told me to do the exact opposite. Maybe then I wouldn’t have given Nick the time of the day. Yet, the fact that I knew Nick’s presence pissed him off was the best weapon I had against my father.
"That hair—looks like Scottie Pippen.” He would growl and eye Nick from head to foot.
“I like it,” I mumbled.
