She’s nervous today, her energy is palpable and she’s been drinking to calm her nerves. It’s not working. I can’t smell the wine, but I can see the effects of it all over her face. Her pores, like those on a sponge have become enlarged and the make up she applied earlier sinks into them like evaporating water on a sandy beach exposing every grain of sand. She’s been talking a lot too. Her mouth is dry and her words have started to collect in the corner of her mouth with the dust of the day. Dry mouth, thick tongue and shaky hands. Her tattooed eyebrows have shown the same expression for several years now. One that says I’m pretending to be as perfect and controlled as the tattoos I decided to place upon my face.
“The words often tumble out of her mouth like seashells that have been tossed ashore by the ocean.”
I’m more and more curious about her authenticity every time we meet. Sometimes our bond feels sisterly, loyal and kind. Other times it feels as fake as the arches above her eyes. Her lashes are long, black and thick. They pull you in like the bristles on the end of that stick we call a broom. Her lips naturally have upturned corners. The bottom lip comes up and out of her face like the big wave surfers hope to ride. The words often tumble out of her mouth like seashells that have been tossed ashore by the ocean. They fall out of her mouth like her stomach no longer wants to keep them. They bypass the heart like a school of fish and never make it to the brain to ponder intentions. They shoot out of her throat like the flying fish that spring up and out of the warm tropical waters in Barbados. Quick, projections connected to ego and false authority.
“I wonder if her body knows her face is lying, again.”
Her teeth are like tiny little pebbles spaced evenly apart. Think of stonehenge, only smaller and affixed to gums. I see them as gates for spoken thoughts. It’s funny how many thoughts slipped through the gum pebbles in her face before. Now they all come zooming out the veneer doors like lightning, unknowingly ready to strike.
Her laugh is often as authentic as the things she shopped for and affixed to her fleshy mound with socket and holes. I wonder if her body knows her face is lying, again.