I spit blood into the sink. It swirls through the white foam of my toothpaste, tearing across the bubbles and into the drain. Water gargles through the gaps in my teeth, and then I spit again, dribbling more blood
down
to
the
porcelain.
I watch it streaking the milky basin then I look up at my mirror, met with a smile of crimson tinted teeth that match the stained colour of my sink. The scraping of bristles against my gums lingers>>>>>>>>through my mouth, a double dose of mouthwash makes them burn more. I start sucking in short! breaths! of! cold! air! to allay the pain of overbrushing. It’s like a ritual: the vigour, then inhaling/exhaling in the same second, staring up at the ceiling, e a s i n g off the infliction. With each pant, her name chants in my head. Ayla, Ayla, Ayla, Ayla, Ayla, Ayla.
The incantation continues as I leave the bathroom to continue getting ready.
Smearing shades of brown on my eyelids, the same way I’ve seen her do 100 times before.
Pulling a red t-shirt over my head, one she complimented me on last week.
Grabbing the pomegranate-scented lip balm I borrowed from her.
I haven’t used it yet; just opened it to admire the fleck of dry skin left behind on the stick.
I’ve been preserving the (( phantom kiss )) carried from lip balm to lips for today. Everytime I’ve sworn to admit my feelings, the promised sentences tie bows around my tongue. My secrets have stayed knotted against the floor of my mouth until today: marked in my calendar as a year from when we first met, a fact even if only I know it. So, I uncap the lip balm and hold it beneath my nose at first, imagining what being in such close proximity to Ayla’s lips would be like. My fingers tremble as I bring/it/closer and press its scarlet sheen against me. Concentric circles of red soon spiral}}}}}from my lips – reminiscent of the blood drooling from them in the bathroom – but I press harder. The lip balm is crushing from the tube onto me, the thicker the application, the closer it feels to her lips being the force behind it.
My hand reaches
under
my trousers and then
under
the lace of my best underwear. I
fall
into my prayer for her, surrendering entirely to the idea of Ayla–
Ayla, Ayla, Ayla, Ayla.
***
It’s time to leave. Two minutes ago would’ve been better but I know I can do this walk in less than eight minutes. Without stopping by the mirror again, I rush to be ready to go. Trousers zipped, keys and lip balm pocketed, shoes pulled on, door slammed behind me. My legs skip me down
the hill, not letting the air’s chill stop their momentum. The front doors of my neighbours blur/past/me as they do daily and I brace myself for the punch of honeysuckle that hits when you’re halfway there. It smells even sweeter than usual today and I stop briefly to idle in its scent, going as far as to crush a blossom between my wrists before continuing—
I reach the stop before my bus does and arrange myself over the slanted bench whilst waiting for the 436. My gaze>settles>into the familiar view of the butchers opposite. Pimpled chickens hang from chains on the ceiling, slabs of mottled purple steaks_lay_spread_under glass boxes, a disembowelled pig rests next to them. My honeysuckle wrists reach up to ( cover my nostrils ) from the pervasive stench of raw meat that’s permeating the air. Sweet stickiness from my face wipessssss against the scented skin of my arm and when I pull it away to see the source, sssssssmears of red have scarred me. I rub my palm back! and! forth! across my lips in an attempt to abrade the remains of the pomegranate lip balm. The colour of my cheeks must match the ruby tint of my lips if the heat of them is anything to go by. My heart is beating in the quickening thuds of Ayla: Ay-la, Ay-la, Ay-la. And I look away from my hand and back up to the butchers and I know I am not going to tell her anything today.
Against the all white tiles of the shop, a butcher all in black drags the pig along his metal counter. He twists it over and blood leaks from inside the empty body, runs off the counter, onto the floor and dribbles
down
the
drain.