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.
