Not What It Looks Like

I left the stage twelve hours ago; I go back on tonight.  Am I frightened?  Mortified?  Exhausted?  I am a void—personified!

Except you can no longer tell from the outside.  My almighty, anonymous needs still rage. The shop’s closed, the kitchen’s gutted.  All those tarts and strudels, cheesecakes, brownies and donuts don’t exist at the moment.  And maybe because I wear the muslin gown as much as he wants (or else I was so easy he lost interest), Carlos has no renewed interest in what I eat or drink.

[This post is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

And my routine has changed.  I take long walks alone.  This morning as I crossed the Plaza del Lago shopping mall, Carlos appeared, silently, coolly in sync with me.  We traversed the small terrace and he stroked my left side.  We leaned into a brick corner and he hoisted me a bit in the air.  Reeling with desire and distaste, I writhed, resisted, and succumbed.  All the while inadvertently catching the eye of a woman loading groceries into a green Volvo.  She shrugged and smiled. 

I twisted my head and wiggled my hands, signaling her:  this is not what it looks like.  The woman slammed her car door and comically saluted.  Was she saying, “I know; I’ve been there”?  Or, was it more, “What do I care?”

And then it hit me—that’s my perennial question:  what do I care?  Anytime anyone misunderstands me, I’m ready to die.  My life seems to depend on getting the population at large to take my side.

(To Be Continued.)