Tamara Stamenkovic
Prose,  Written literature | Author's writings

See you next Friday

Between the parallels of touch and the unclear flow of words, do you have any awareness at all about how you tear someone else’s skin with nails as if you created it and say that you don’t like its rough surface? The world leaves you with space at the edge of your mind for just one question, for one more fall, one that will change you from the root, a fall that will raise all other foundations on which you build your contradiction of what you say and what you touch, feeling absolutely every pedal of that skin you can’t live without. And she skillfully wears the skin she desires for special occasions. She’s special, isn’t she? No, you’re telling yourself she’s just another one you are going to forget after a sleepless night. But look, that night turned into eternity, into days, into years, into your life, a life that never occurred to you. She became everything because she wanted to, but you persistently close your eyes to the idea of ​​the truth. With your eyes wide open, you follow her every movement, the corners of her lips smiling cunningly, looking at you, trapped in the frames of her movie. Simulation, you didn’t know what that means before you met her. She uses it on you, manipulating even the air you breathe, yet you think you are deceiving her, while you’re watching her as she embraces and destroys you with the elegant appearance of everything she wants. You need to understand what kind of model in her project you are. You believe she’s yours. You’re trying so that your thoughts will miraculously turn into reality. In the algorithm of your lust and something you consider love, all logical outcomes are lost. You give your best to make her face look asymmetrical, her magnetic body form to make anisotropic because you can’t stand the balance of her movements, peaceful and unchanging. You silence her voice and turn off the lights so you don’t look at her, but the color of her skin is more powerful and she can see more clearly in the dark. On the imaginary diagonal of her body, you try to notice even the slightest irregularity that can make you stop touching her because your denial doesn’t agree with the way you absorb the sophisticated appearance that attracts you. And your rejection of that fact drives you crazy, but you don’t give up saying it to yourself, or her. And yet, obsessively and consciously, you don’t look away as she takes off her little black dress in a rented apartment. She’s not yours, you know, but you have no awareness of it, you know nothing and you’re sure of everything. You erase the margins on her waist, straightening the curved lines that perfectly fit her spine in your eyes. You look at her as if she were always yours, in a way that a woman cannot belong to a man, but you convince yourself that she’s your property. Do you see yourself, for at least half a second, in a parallel world in the same room, as you surrender to your urges and deny them at the same time? You intuitively move your lips along the asymptote between her breasts and fall to your knees, unknowingly allowing her to own you. You scream, banging your head against the wall for that crystal clear truth to disappear. You push her away and grab her hair to show her that you’re not hers, but that she’s yours. And your own words of rejecting everything you feel are echoing, as you close her mouth to not say all the things you know you want to hear. Today you look at her as a geometric figure that contains an infinite set of dots. And you don’t see yourself, again. How can you when everything you’ve ever asked for is breathing in silhouette across the room and making you become another one of her puppets? Are you? You’re grabbing her neck so hard, she’s so visible that you want to make sure she’s real. You turn her against the wall and move over her face with your hand. On your fingers, the color of her mascara runs, and the bed becomes smaller and smaller. You’re in the impenetrable prism of all that is and isn’t. Everything is inverted. Everything you give and none of it is yours. You still don’t see the irony of your surrender, the pattern you fell into so easily, so thoughtlessly, the template she created. You thought you were more skilled at games than she is, but she exceeded you, doing almost nothing, doing absolutely everything needed for you to become her property. You resist in vain, while you’re watching her put on a dress, especially for him, and put on waterproof mascara, for life outside a rented apartment. One more goodbye kiss and one more: “See you next Friday.

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