Beatriz feels alarmingly soft in your hands, and you graze her body with your palms the way you would pet the long grass by the river where you live. She tosses her dark hair aside, wraps her hand over yours, and clenches down on her own flesh.
In therapy, I was used to experiencing myself as a sieve, a bum mirror, a talking machine. My body language was typically involuntary. “Scared?” I said, though that sounded so much more specific. Around us, potted plants offered oxygen.
A month after the attack on her body, she woke to find she could not peel her fingers apart; the skin of her hands was fused together. She could no longer steer a car. They were claws, bent and poised in defense.
everything was about combinations of pairs, everything was about relationships between people and their feelings, everything was about sex, everything was about where you came from, and what you wore while coming.