Concentric Roses

Roses simper in a jar. I am equally demure. Strangers sit around me. The oval table is large, its wood so polished it could be glass. The skin around my fingernails is coarse. My hands curl into fists.

Patience lingers in the air.

A woman leaves. Five minutes have passed since the cruel thing was uttered. A wristwatch ticks. The room is dim. Someone coughs in a calculated manner. Winter nurses a petty grudge. Sleet berates the panes. The roses are out of season.

I inhale, quietly. It’s Monday evening. I contemplate the last little touches of love within me. I have thought of them too often; their novelty and vigour are fading. They are attached to no one. A woman in her sixties raises her head. We lean imperceptibly towards her.

‘It is too frail to be of any use.’ Her hair is shot through with grey. We nod. Her neck slopes downward once more. The rose petals seem to wax lyrical in the fresh silence. They are so pale. I count each of my knuckles, twice. Unconditional affection is a vague concept. This meeting is ending. 

*

Brush strokes are visible. It’s early morning, the gallery is almost empty. I look at the sleeping baby. Rain falls outside. She is the product of a dream. There’s a stability to this circular art. I’m drawn inside its many layers. The nexus is a relief. She stirs in her stroller. One of its wheels creaks.

There’s no time left to idealise. I perform my activities with increasing hesitancy. Beauty hides itself around corners. The sky’s a perpetual potbelly of cloud. I try to deepen my acceptance of it all. The gallery assistant laughs quietly in a corner. The geometry of this painting goes round and round. I wish a canvas would fall down.

Our dreams contain nothing similar. Hers are rotund, plump visions. Mine, limp, utterly useless. I readjust her soft, cotton hat and her eyelids quiver. The gallery ceiling is domed. My state of calm is brittle. I shiver.

‘I know it all. I know it all.’ A new woman has entered. She mutters as she wanders. Her scarf is tightly wound. Her shoes leave wet marks on the floor. Her mouth is an ode to pomegranate. I turn away from this intrusion of colour. My mind is filled with the gentle tones of the painting. Her ego is palpable. It’s healthy and uncertain and very curious. I wonder how my own appears. 

*

Rain drums. The gallery café is empty. Her head rests against my breast. The clock ticks, ignorant of our bond. Her lips splutter. All’s quiet save the rain. A slice of cake rests on a white plate. I pat her gently. There is no one to tell about the art.

The past becomes invisible and irrelevant so quickly. I glance over my shoulder. Conversations flurry in my mind. I rock a little in my seat. She enters a deep, little cove of a dream. An unintentional absence. I pick up a dessert fork and pierce soft sponge. A wan face appears in the reflective surface of a memory.

*

My body is arranged in delicate contortion. Music lilts. Men and women surround me. Graphite itches paper. I maintain my position. A satin cloth is draped around my ankles. I’m nude. A few of my scars stare balefully out at a circle of people. Foreheads furrow. Accurate representation is not a priority. Vanity pricks me every few minutes. It burrows itself under the guise of self-consciousness. I lull myself into indifference. 

The studio forbids winter to enter, although I hear eddies of wind and see the dark gasp of night from the tall windows. Hair falls on my shoulder. I close my eyes, fingers brushing the top of a thigh, skin cool to the touch.

I am moving. I am disappointing them. I hush the twitching of my hands.

We’re nearing two hours. Saying goodbye is a true art. Goosepimples pucker my skin. Sketches of my body lie discarded on the floor like dandruff. I watch the downcast eyes of a stranger. They have not glanced at me for a while and I wonder from which experience they draw. A pair of slick, red shoes tap quietly. The music has stopped. My body is a coned shell. My heart a little, red oyster. 

Tutting ensues and the session ends. Judgement floods a few minds. People mill. A blanket is proffered. Each sketch is presented and looked at twice. 

‘Either way, it’s a little death.’ Large sheets of paper are rolled. Utensils rattle as they are collected and stowed. I slip back into my clothes. Nudity is a balm. An opportunity arises for me to speak. My throat constricts.

*

I sit on the edge of my bath, looking at the stolen piece of charcoal, the mirror blind with steam. The wallpaper, dour and peeling. Moisture blends with the tip of the charcoal. I bend forward, touching it against the inside of my calf, tracing the bulge of my leg muscles, all the way up. Lines and shapes appear on my skin. I cough. The damp air slowly cools. 

I drape a towel over my shoulders and wander into her room. She lies in a cot, her limbs very still. My breasts are swollen. I won’t disturb her sleep. I go downstairs to release some of the milk, feeling my way in the darkened kitchen for a bowl. My hip catches the side of a counter. I wince. My body performs its functions, with or without my consent. 

*

I am careless. I have managed to insult the woman next to me. The roses are thrilled. The conversation dove into a grey area, and we all floundered. Now there is silence. Winter victimises the windows with occasional hail. The woman next to me sniffs, her fingers ornate with rings. I swallow. My mouth is very dry. Pleasure seems like a distant concept. I wonder how many capillaries are broken in her mottled face. 

A cut-open apple rests in a bowl, its flesh browning at the edges. We’re instructed to memorise its contours. The afterimage we retain is the picture we’re to outline in our sketchpads. We must acknowledge the fallacies of our perception. This is a new activity for us. It is to replace talking, which we are not so good at. Loss has stolen the clarity of our speech. I would like to apologise to the woman next to me. I make eye contact with her instead. 

The roses forget to sneer. Clarity perches on our shoulders. We have been scribbling for five minutes. Our still lifes contain traces of hope. Pencil shavings spiral delicately on the tabletop, an errant breath scatters them. I press lead deep into a page. I’m depicting a blemish on the skin, (I can’t truly remember if it was there or not). My stem is curved slightly to the right. My mouth trembles. Adrenaline stimulates us. We have a focus at last. Lamps emit a quiet glow.

Our time is up. We pass the pictures clockwise: fourteen variations of an apple. The colouring pencils are unleashed, and dull paper becomes a tapestry of autumnal splendour; burnt umbers, maroons, and deep carmine. We ignore the real apple, which sits on a shelf, elsewhere.

*

The cold culls all thoughts. My posture is rigid. A woman picks from a plastic container of salmon, her emotions heightened. I shouldn’t be watching her. She’s having trouble capturing my body the way she desires. Her crayons are stiff cadavers, untouched in their box. Everyone else is absorbed. I glance at the moles on the tops of my arms. My sternum rises and falls. 

‘I am always open.’ The woman’s fingers twitch. The facilitator bends over her, looking at the nondescript traces on her page. Words of encouragement echo. We all pretend not to hear. A sliver of salmon enters her mouth and a faint smell arises. The woman nods. A tissue is procured for her fingers. She touches the wax crayons. Her neighbour fusses over the proportions of my torso. Someone hums.

I button up my thick coat. Winter’s iris glares. I step into cold night. Voices spill and clatter and eventually disperse. Lighted windows display quiet scenes as I walk along the streets. I notice individual faces at random. Net curtains flutter. 

*

A melee of abstract shapes merge. I tilt my head. We stand in front of a canvas. This is a new exhibition. Her head rests in the crook of my arms, eyelids shut. Dreaming, again. Her sleep patterns are geometrical visions. People wander about the gallery. A prism of light seems to rest on each painting. Innate concepts of transcendence are described in the exhibition booklet. I can’t decipher their meaning.

Her cheek is soft to stroke. She is heavy in my arms. I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t turn to look.