Authorship of Meat: Exerpt

HAPPINESS IS THE SEAM LEFT UNSTICHED

As they always did, as they never had the opportunity to do, they awoke at precisely the same moment. The actual time of their awakening was fluctuant and of no major significance; one day he needed to be up at six A.M. for an interview and she opened her eyes with his at 5:25. On another occasion, she had had a long night of studying, of worrying, and needed a couple of extra hours; he laid his dreams to bed, awoke in bed with her as she arose with him at 12:43, the sun streaming in through their bedroom window, into his eyes, into hers. Life, after all, was a single blinding spotlight, created for and operated by them and only them. The light streamed in as the luminescent world itself streamed in. They opened their eyes each morning as if their waking lives were a dream they shared, a dream only made real when they dreamt it together, a dream impossibly stitched seamlessly into reality, the seam between the two sheets impossibly woven taut by their opening eyes. A bed of dreams, of visions – a place to sleep, to dream, to live. A single pair of eyes, a single mind between them, opening, being flooded with light. The bed-sheet fitted above their collective window retracted all at once. Their dreaming lives the sheet under which they slept, made conversation, made love.

Mmmmm…. morning, she said, rolling over to face him. This was her favourite moment. Her favourite time of day, her favourite time of all time. His as well. Watching him open his eyes unto the dream they shared – the dream they dreamt up together and now lived together, incredibly enough. What time is it?

Time to wake up, apparently.

Did you dream of me?

Of course. And you?

Of course.

And of what did you dream?

I just told you: I dreamt of you.

No, I mean what was I doing in your dream, silly?

You were waking up and asking me of what I was dreaming.

And how did you answer?

I said I was dreaming of you.

And so it had been for as long as they could remember, so it would forever be even after their memories ebbed back into aged forgetfulness, so it would never be, of course. Each morning they had and would and would never be allowed to wake up in bed – simultaneously – and just be. Each morning she would and never would roll onto her side – her purple-black hair each time rearranging itself into new ink blots of meaningless and deeply meaningful strings of obsidian against her pillow (what do you see now, Love? and now? and now?) – and she inspected his face, as if for the millionth time. As if for the very first:

I see grey in your beard this morning.

No you don’t.

I know.

Then why would you say that?

Because it scares you.

Not if you’re the one who points it out.

I’m not; you haven’t a single grey hair.

You’re changing your story.

And now you have nothing to fear.

With her finger, she traced lines between the most infinitesimal of his face’s freckles. She could trace them without looking. She knew their locations by heart. Eventually, she did and didn’t come to name each of his freckles, and the constellations between them which only she could see and trace. A stargazer. She was always reminding him of their names: And here is the Great Hammock. And here is the Lonely Winged Archer. And right here is the One That Looks Like Me.

And does it look like you because it does or because it does to you?

What’s the difference?

In one case your eyes inform your mind and in the other your mind informs your eyes.

You speak of them as if they’re separate.

They awoke simultaneously each morning (she never let me wake up beside her) because it was as if the other could only be seen, could only exist fully in the eyes of the other. As if living was being seen. And only the other could see the other for all their ink-blot-obsidian-hair-freckle-constellation wonder. They lived exclusively in the space between the others’ eyes and head. If one was awake without the other, then neither had arisen yet that day.

I never asked you this, she said as she kissed his chest, but why didn’t you turn back over to me that night?

Which night?

You know the night, she said, making her way down his chest, down his stomach. Her knowing hands on his neck. Her morning breath like air to his lungs only.

I don’t know. I was embarrassed I think.

Embarrassed of what?

Of me. Of the way I had acted. Of the way things turned out.

But if you hadn’t have acted the way you did, would we be here?

Be where?

Be here, she said and kissed his stomach. And here and kissed the nevus on his solar plexus. And here and kissed his nipple, and lingered over it.

But you are here. And I never turned back to you.

I know.

And he took her hand in his. You are here, thank god, he said and kissed her neck, her jaw, the corner of her eyes, the corner of her lips, her lips themselves. You are here.

And just as they would and wouldn’t open their eyes at the same moment each morning, each morning they would and never would make love in their bed. Each morning as they were making love in their makeshift, whitewashed bedroom, she would say thank god you didn’t turn over to me and each morning he would respond by saying thank god you are here.

Dangles of her ebony hair on his faces:

Thank god you didn’t turn over to me.

One of his hands on the back of her neck, one on her cheek:

Thank god you are here.

Their love-making was a desperate entangling of their bodies. Just as their life had become a thing which was only seen completely, lived completely through two sets of eyes, they made love to relinquish the remaining gaps between their two beings. Her foot around his leg, his hands on her head and neck, her arms wrapped around his back. It was as if they were each pulling the other into themselves, until there finally was no distinction between them.

Until:

Thank god you didn’t turn over to me

Thank god you are here

Thank god you didn’t turn

Thank god you are

Thank god you

Thank god you

Thank……….thank……thank………

Each morning after they finished making love in their bed (they have never slept together), they spoke of their memories. She always laid her head on his chest and he always put a hand behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, pulling his fingers through her hair. He asked:

Would you have been able to ever love me, do you think?

Of course, silly.

Then why won’t you let me?

I do. I am.

No not in this. In real life.

Just because I could love you doesn’t mean that I should, she said and traced constellations on his stomach: and here is the Smaller Wooden Spoon; and here is the Mallard in Flight; and this one right here looks like an umbrella.

Why shouldn’t you love me?

There are so many reasons. Do we really need to talk about this?

I think it’s important.

You ruin everything in your life with your constant talking.

Hey!

I would have destroyed you, Mike.

I trust only you with my destruction.

I’d kill myself if I killed you.

And I would chose to never live if it meant that someone other than you must kill me, that you would escape death only to be killed by someone other than me.

Why do you love me? she asked and fingered tiny circles around his belly button.

I don’t love you. You won’t let me, remember?

Right, she said and looked down his torso into his face, the face only she knew fully. The face she’d never get to know.

If you let me love you –

Then you’d stop dreaming of me.

But I’d stop dreaming if I could have you. I’d have no need for dreams.

I would disappoint you.

You couldn’t possibly.

I would.

You don’t trust me, he said. I only dream because I can’t have you. Because you won’t let me. You won’t let me know what you look like leaving the shower soaking wet, hopping down the hallway to our bedroom on pointed toes, your towel falling down, your hands rushing to cover yourself, you rushing out of the shower on tiptoes, your towel falling, your hands, your exiting, the towel, the water, the time, the showertiptoestowelfallinghandsexiting the towel…. The time, your breasts finally falling, your dark hair finally lightening, your varicose veins like earthworms finally working towards the surface for a bit of rain water, your body aging for me only, your out-of shower- dance memorized by me only, only able to be re-enacted by me.

It wouldn’t be as pretty in real life. You make it all sound so pretty.

I want you to tell me you love me.

I do.

No, say my name, and tell me you love me.

I can’t.

Why?

Because you’re too sacred to me to be given a name, she said, perching herself up on her elbow, the sun nearly blinding as it came crashing through their window. Because you’re not a name and I’d never put you into one. Because you have none.

I want you to say: Mike, I love you.

But that’s not who you are or what I do.

I know. You’re the best thing that never happened to me.

I know. But listen –

Always, love. To you, always.

She crawled up to him, over him, driving her knees into his stomach, into his fleshy parts, smiling as she crawled towards his head. She finally came to rest lying down next to him again, in just the same way as they had and hadn’t awoken simultaneously that morning and every morning and none. She closed his eyes with her cartographer’s fingers. Now listen she whispered.

Ok, he whispered back, eyes closed.

When you wake up, remember only this:

you need to protect your face.