She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.
From ‘For My Lover, Returning to
His Wife,’ by Anne Sexton
Since I’ve been working in the hospital, my body has become a distribution centre. Stocks come and go, everything closely monitored and controlled. I am a predictable entity that can function properly with just enough sleep. My body safeguards the medical aid structure, that’s how you should see it. And it does so with such passion that it sometimes fantasises about being treated roughly, being broken, so that it doesn’t need to provide any aid for a little while.
You ask me what it’s like, working with your husband. Well, I’m happy to tell you, Josie. You’re outside the door of the room where your son is being treated. You see me at the end of the corridor and you say ‘Just a minute’ to the child. Then you come my way, looking excited almost. Jesus, Josie. You call me sweetheart. I mean, I get it, you’re fourteen years older, and, in a hospital like this one, it’s common to pretend you’re cheerful to hide your fear. But I’ve heard you get panic attacks and use hair ties to attach sweet notes to Mick’s handlebars before he gets onto his bike to spend another working day with me.
I’ll start by telling you who started this: it was Mick. I’m sorry. I know that I’m supposed to be the instigator in the classic version of this story; I wasn’t interested in his cast-iron family life, and look at how happy he was to play along … No, it was he who sent me a message, asking if I’d heard that Dana’s parents are getting divorced, and if we should do something about it. Dana is our new nurse. She’s seventeen. But maybe you already knew. ‘OK,’ I wrote back. I thought: what should I say about someone’s divorcing parents? The world is full of divorced parents and people saying something about them.
‘Perhaps we can help,’ he said, when he entered the office. He looked around, which he did every time, as if he were looking for something that he had missed previously. Then, with those dark-brown eyes that always seemed to have something smouldering inside, he turned to face me. ‘What do you think?’
‘I agree,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t seem to cope.’
‘Yes, she’s stopped talking. Have you noticed? When I ask her something, she just stares at me and walks away.’
‘Hmm, that’s worrying,’ I said. ‘Some parents only think of themselves.’
He looked at me for a long time. Too long.
‘I have to go,’ I said.
He said my name.
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘Er…’ Suddenly, he seemed nervous. He looked away, which was such a relief, Josie, because he had been looking at me for weeks. Really: weeks. You don’t want to know what it’s like to be so visible all the time; every cardigan, shirt and belt I put on, every pair of shoes I wore, whether I was late or on time, every patient I talked to: he noticed everything. He asked me whether I had a new bag, if I had been ill, where I was during the meeting. ‘You’re keeping an eye on me,’ I said once, trying to smile. ‘You’re right,’ he said, and I saw a mean flicker in his eyes, as if he were about to take something from me. ‘I’m keeping a close eye on you.’ When I came home that evening, I realised that I was panting; when I put my bike in the rack, when I put the remains of the pasta in a pan, when I tried to read a book on the sofa. And I was still panting in bed that night.
Now he looked right past me through the window at the world outside, where only trails of grey moved across the sky. I saw the cropped hair on his perfect skull, the wrinkles around his eyes. An old man, Josie. Your husband is becoming an old man.
‘Yes?’ I said again. He remained silent and kept looking away. ‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘What is it you want to say? Or should I say it?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You say it.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Well, I feel watched by you.’
‘Do you mind?’ he asked. He still wasn’t looking at me.
‘No,’ I answered.
Now he looked at me. ‘No?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It excites me.’
My lies are never complete fabrications, Josie, they are harbingers of the truth. ‘I’m on my way,’ I say, when I have yet to leave home. ‘I’m working on it,’ when I have yet to start. That night, I redeemed my lie and fantasised about him for the first time. I imagined his heavy body pressing me down to the ground and his gruff voice saying: ‘You’re not going anywhere any more. I’m watching you very closely.’ I thought of the sloppy way in which he entered me, thrusting, a hand over my mouth. Are you surprised, Josie, that I made his movements more aggressive? As if he were going to break me; his drool on me, his teeth, my nipples, my cunt and how he said it: your cunt, your cunt. And then: ‘Yes, I’m keeping a close eye on you.’ It was a new kind of orgasm that I hadn’t known before. A feeling of being all alone in an earth-shattering invention.
That’s how it started. Perhaps you could say that I started it all. ‘So what turns you on?’ he asked, in a message when I had already gone home. ‘For you to stop looking,’ I wrote back. ‘Do I make you horny by looking at you?’ he wrote. ‘Yes, you do.’ ‘Should I actually stop looking?’ ‘No.’ You could say that he asked the questions and I gave the answers. And you could ask: does the answer justify the question or vice versa?
You are standing across from me, Josie, with your car keys and your scarf, as real as a cast-iron pot in this incredibly long, linoleumed corridor. Your son, who hit a tree stump with his BMX bike, lies in the treatment room. Mick is sitting by his bedside. I want to tell you about my body, which keeps breaking down, about the determination of the broken, the unfeeling body that no longer functions properly. Every day, I restore the material order here, while I fall apart every once in a while. I can’t work among these broken people and remain whole myself. Someone needs to squeeze my throat from time to time, a flat hand against my body, a warm breath against my cheeks that tells me to be quiet, very quiet.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.
From ‘For My Lover, Returning to
His Wife,’ by Anne Sexton
Since I’ve been working in the hospital, my body has become a distribution centre. Stocks come and go, everything closely monitored and controlled. I am a predictable entity that can function properly with just enough sleep. My body safeguards the medical aid structure, that’s how you should see it. And it does so with such passion that it sometimes fantasises about being treated roughly, being broken, so that it doesn’t need to provide any aid for a little while.
You ask me what it’s like, working with your husband. Well, I’m happy to tell you, Josie. You’re outside the door of the room where your son is being treated. You see me at the end of the corridor and you say ‘Just a minute’ to the child. Then you come my way, looking excited almost. Jesus, Josie. You call me sweetheart. I mean, I get it, you’re fourteen years older, and, in a hospital like this one, it’s common to pretend you’re cheerful to hide your fear. But I’ve heard you get panic attacks and use hair ties to attach sweet notes to Mick’s handlebars before he gets onto his bike to spend another working day with me.
I’ll start by telling you who started this: it was Mick. I’m sorry. I know that I’m supposed to be the instigator in the classic version of this story; I wasn’t interested in his cast-iron family life, and look at how happy he was to play along … No, it was he who sent me a message, asking if I’d heard that Dana’s parents are getting divorced, and if we should do something about it. Dana is our new nurse. She’s seventeen. But maybe you already knew. ‘OK,’ I wrote back. I thought: what should I say about someone’s divorcing parents? The world is full of divorced parents and people saying something about them.
‘Perhaps we can help,’ he said, when he entered the office. He looked around, which he did every time, as if he were looking for something that he had missed previously. Then, with those dark-brown eyes that always seemed to have something smouldering inside, he turned to face me. ‘What do you think?’
‘I agree,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t seem to cope.’
‘Yes, she’s stopped talking. Have you noticed? When I ask her something, she just stares at me and walks away.’
‘Hmm, that’s worrying,’ I said. ‘Some parents only think of themselves.’
He looked at me for a long time. Too long.
‘I have to go,’ I said.
He said my name.
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘Er…’ Suddenly, he seemed nervous. He looked away, which was such a relief, Josie, because he had been looking at me for weeks. Really: weeks. You don’t want to know what it’s like to be so visible all the time; every cardigan, shirt and belt I put on, every pair of shoes I wore, whether I was late or on time, every patient I talked to: he noticed everything. He asked me whether I had a new bag, if I had been ill, where I was during the meeting. ‘You’re keeping an eye on me,’ I said once, trying to smile. ‘You’re right,’ he said, and I saw a mean flicker in his eyes, as if he were about to take something from me. ‘I’m keeping a close eye on you.’ When I came home that evening, I realised that I was panting; when I put my bike in the rack, when I put the remains of the pasta in a pan, when I tried to read a book on the sofa. And I was still panting in bed that night.
Now he looked right past me through the window at the world outside, where only trails of grey moved across the sky. I saw the cropped hair on his perfect skull, the wrinkles around his eyes. An old man, Josie. Your husband is becoming an old man.
‘Yes?’ I said again. He remained silent and kept looking away. ‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘What is it you want to say? Or should I say it?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You say it.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Well, I feel watched by you.’
‘Do you mind?’ he asked. He still wasn’t looking at me.
‘No,’ I answered.
Now he looked at me. ‘No?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It excites me.’
My lies are never complete fabrications, Josie, they are harbingers of the truth. ‘I’m on my way,’ I say, when I have yet to leave home. ‘I’m working on it,’ when I have yet to start. That night, I redeemed my lie and fantasised about him for the first time. I imagined his heavy body pressing me down to the ground and his gruff voice saying: ‘You’re not going anywhere any more. I’m watching you very closely.’ I thought of the sloppy way in which he entered me, thrusting, a hand over my mouth. Are you surprised, Josie, that I made his movements more aggressive? As if he were going to break me; his drool on me, his teeth, my nipples, my cunt and how he said it: your cunt, your cunt. And then: ‘Yes, I’m keeping a close eye on you.’ It was a new kind of orgasm that I hadn’t known before. A feeling of being all alone in an earth-shattering invention.
That’s how it started. Perhaps you could say that I started it all. ‘So what turns you on?’ he asked, in a message when I had already gone home. ‘For you to stop looking,’ I wrote back. ‘Do I make you horny by looking at you?’ he wrote. ‘Yes, you do.’ ‘Should I actually stop looking?’ ‘No.’ You could say that he asked the questions and I gave the answers. And you could ask: does the answer justify the question or vice versa?
You are standing across from me, Josie, with your car keys and your scarf, as real as a cast-iron pot in this incredibly long, linoleumed corridor. Your son, who hit a tree stump with his BMX bike, lies in the treatment room. Mick is sitting by his bedside. I want to tell you about my body, which keeps breaking down, about the determination of the broken, the unfeeling body that no longer functions properly. Every day, I restore the material order here, while I fall apart every once in a while. I can’t work among these broken people and remain whole myself. Someone needs to squeeze my throat from time to time, a flat hand against my body, a warm breath against my cheeks that tells me to be quiet, very quiet.