I dreamt I was dead the other day. I could smell the damp, sweet scent of the earth through my coffin. As I lay there, ready to spend the rest of eternity underneath a few sober-looking boards, watching the wood wasting away due to the soil and time, I thought about Jelle, my first boyfriend. When I broke up with him, he begged me to stay so that he and I ‘could witness each other’s lives.’ Creepy, I remember thinking. But there, rotting underground, covered in maggots, gravel and a dress I clearly hadn’t picked myself, I felt highly unnoticed. Nobody had truly witnessed the short period of time in which I had been.
I woke up, clean and whole, but since then I’ve been hearing Jelle’s words every time I try to fall asleep, peel carrots or wash my hair.
As I’m listening to his plea for the tenth time today, inside the vacuum provided by my noise-cancelling headphones, someone taps me on the shoulder. I push back the heavy cushions and the city sounds flood back in, such as a tram hurtling by and a woman talking on the phone in a different language.
‘Have you ever dreamt of a stranger treating you to a free dinner?’
The sun is far from setting, people in light clothing pass us by. They don’t even notice this interaction. Across the street, I can see the both of us reflected in a shop window. Me: small and short-skirted. Him: stately, in a suit. ‘But I’ve already eaten,’ I argue for a bit.
Two minutes later, I’m sitting across from a man I don’t know, out on the terrace of some Italian place. Someone asks us whether we’d like to start with something to drink. I consult the menu, order the most expensive aperitif and lean back in my chair.
I have a tiny zebra tattoo in the space underneath my left bra strap, where my breast ends and my shoulder begins. He notices the animal and starts explaining to me that zebras can read their fellow zebras’ stripes like barcodes. I hook my thumb behind the strap and pull it up slightly, until the top of my bra covers its body. I’m not to be read.
‘Did you know,’ he says, ‘that blonde women have been measured to have the most oestrogen?’
‘Oh, really?’ My cocktail stick fails to pierce any of the olives on the dish in front of us. I decide just to pick one up with my fingers.
‘Even months after they die, their levels are much higher than the average.’
‘Maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all,’ I say, but he places his thin hand on top of mine. I hesitate for a second, shift lightly in my chair, yet stay seated. To at least escape the current topic of conversation I use my free hand to point at the stitching along the shoulder of his tailor-made suit.
‘Craftsmanship,’ I say.
‘Craftsmanship,’ he replies, nodding. ‘I assumed you’d be a person with good taste.’ Had he seen me with the breeze in my hair as I’d been walking briskly? Or as I had pulled down my dress, quickly, politely? Had he seen me walking in or out of a shop, with a net of tangerines? Or biting my lower lip, faltering as I crossed the street, raising a hand to a driver, smiling at the pavement?
I’m smiling now, too, but sheepishly at the stranger. Look at me, enjoying the attentions of an older man. Typical. When he invites me to his place I can hear myself saying yes, not quite hesitantly enough.
It’s windy on the beach. Sand grazes our legs as the seagulls hover in the air, sleek and still. They look so heavy, like bottles. I can feel him looking at me. At the warm blood beaming through my skin, at the tears the wind is squeezing out of the corner of my eye. I revel in it. I made my decision a while ago. The futile truth of it is that this man is not going to give me what I want. Because I want to be engulfed. I want a wave to crash down on me and drag me into the depths of the sea. I want to wrestle an octopus, be enfolded by tentacles, put one of them in my mouth.
‘Lie down.’
A bit rude. But better than I’d imagined he would be. We’re standing in front of a sand embankment. I can’t see the dike, that’s how high the mound is. He watches as I lower myself onto the clammy ground. It feels cold and hard. The wind blows my dress up over my pelvis, but I don’t fix myself. I follow his gaze, greedily taking in the untouched skin. He kneels down next to me and rests his hand on top of my rayon underwear. I listen as he outlines what’s about to happen. My cunt tenses and whimpers under the pressure of his arm. Then he gets up and walks toward the surf, as he said he would. He lights a cigarette. I close my eyes and theatrically drop my limbs onto the cold sand. I tilt my head sideway. I push back my shoulder blades. They leave little dents in the sand. Minutes pass. I don’t know if it’s the sand blowing up or sand lice crawling all over me, but my arms and legs are tingling. This is only temporary. The cold is numbing my skin. I keep still, as promised, and through my eyelashes I can see him coming closer. The beach gives off a sweet smell; I picture what he’s seeing, and shiver.