3:AM Magazine

By Elizabeth Ellen.

It was an hour, naked, on the edge of the tub. The angle thing was tricky. Knees in varying degrees of apartness. I took thirty-three pictures, deleted twenty-nine. I put on a pair of threadbare pajamas. It didn’t matter how I looked now that the camera was shelved. It was another half an hour waiting on the computer. The Internet wasn’t coming in again. I was stealing that from my neighbors, too. I got in the car, drove across town. I’d never taken nude photos of myself before. I wrote this on the palm of my hand so I’d remember to tell you: I’ve never taken nude photos of myself before. I wanted to make sure you appreciated the gesture. I was trying to make you love me anyway I could. I had a feeling I wasn’t doing so well anymore. I thought about how effortless it had been in the beginning:

1. eat a bag of peanut M&M’s
2. brush hair

I parked farther than I had to. I liked walking. I liked making things harder than they needed to be. (Circle all that apply.) I sat on a bench outside Barnes & Noble. It was after one in the morning. I was still wearing my pajamas. I was unconcerned with the other two cars in the parking lot. Each photo took between thirty seconds and a minute to attach. I opened my palm; copied what I’d written into the email: I’ve never taken nude photos of myself before. I would rather have eaten a bag of M&M’s. I was hungrier than I thought. I didn’t see the man coming. I was considering the way your face looked as you watched me pick the M&M’s singly off the bed; shove them one at a time into my mouth. It’s funny to think about how many hours you can spend revisiting a period of time that was so small, fractionally, in your life. Funny in a way that is tragic, I mean. (Tragic in the way that eating M&M’s is for me now, I mean.) The man said, “Hey, are you okay?” He was standing a foot from me. I angled myself away from him. I was worried he might see my photographs. I didn’t want anyone else to see them - even accidentally – without your permission. I felt the same way about the parts of me contained within them. I looked up at the man. I wasn’t sure what he was asking, was uncertain how to respond. I hadn’t been okay since I’d finished the bag of M&M’s, but I didn’t think that was what he meant. “I’m almost done,” I said. “I’ll only be another minute.” The man seemed dissatisfied with my answer. He stood perfectly still when I wanted him to move. “I’m fine,” I said, holding his gaze. The man began to back slowly away from me and as he did so I saw on his face how easy it would be to make him love me:

1. tell him I’m not fine
2. move four inches to either the right or the left

Instead I looked down, turned my attentions back to you. I was considering how your face would look when you saw the photos. I wanted it to look the same way it had when you watched me eating the M&M’s, but I knew that it wouldn’t. I stopped at a gas station and bought a bag of Combos. I spilled them out on my bed, ate them singly, waiting for you to call.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elizabeth Ellen enjoys making a public display of her sexual, drinking and cigar-smoking habits. She would like to dedicate this flash to Brandon Scott Gorrell. Currently she is listening to Seether’s version of “Careless Whisper” on repeat. Yes, she is that lame.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Thursday, September 10th, 2009.