Names I Carry
sometimes I couldn’t even see their faces, only their hands, only the way the room smelled, cheap perfume, sweat, their breath, their voices like echoes from another floor, another city, not really here, not really them, just a sound playing for me alone
others put their phones on speaker, I stayed still, listened, work, friends, trivial mishaps, sometimes it repeated, sometimes it overlapped with the squeak of shoes on the tile, the car horns below, the way the air smelled when the heater clicked on, face neutral, hands supposed to be steady but restless, one wandering at my blouse, one on the receiver, nodding, smiling, pretending, shrinking inside
Someone cried in the middle of it and I counted the seconds like stretched chewing gum, sticky, slow, slow, slow, his shoulders trembling. I sat still, shadow, sometimes he wiped tears on the bedspread, sometimes on my arm, I let it happen, counted, tick, tick, tick, sometimes imagined the clock melting into the carpet, the carpet breathing under us
Some called me by their sister’s or daughter’s name, sometimes both, sometimes a name I almost recognized, almost, and when they left I thought to follow, thought I could see their apartments, their front doors, little vestibules, carpets smelling faintly of eggs and bread from a morning that never existed, hands never meant for me, only the glimpse from the window, shiver, and still I stayed in the apartment.
I carried their secrets, sometimes smelled them, sometimes saw them in the corner of the room, hidden in the shadows of the ceiling, their faces sometimes burned into my vision when I closed my eyes, they stayed, between us, locked, I walked tall, I spoke sharp, hands steady, outwardly, but under my ribs it coiled, pulsed, whispered, kept silent, hand pressed to chest, felt it echo in bones, laughter could not hide it, smiles could not, the world could not see
Sometimes the night brought it back, sometimes it didn’t, sometimes it led me to other rooms, other men, other names, other echoes, and I followed, only in my mind, tracing footsteps on tile that wasn’t there, listening to door squeaks that were echoes of memories I didn’t want, sugar stains, half-empty coffee, the smell of old cigarettes, the small laugh I alone could hear, slipping between seconds, slipping between days
And sometimes… sometimes I could make it all disappear, all of it, just disappear, but only for a moment, and then it came back again, under ribs, under skin, in the pulse, in the whisper, always there, sometimes small, sometimes enormous, like it had no beginning, no end, only me, only shadow, only quiet, only waiting.