Title: Perfect Pinch
by Tesni Oteme
I don’t like to read, but I would sit and listen to you all day, telling stories. I like the one about the old raven who became a man and couldn’t remember how to change back. In my childhood, he never died. I liked the one about the girl who cried so hard, so much for the soldier who didn’t know he loved her. She became a stream, and when he came back, realized his loss, he sat on her banks until a witch took pity, turning him into an apple tree. Tales of transformation, you know?
Life’s different now, it’s been a long while since you pulled a stone from your bag and told me about the mountain it used to be. Almost a lifetime.
I wish my niece could hear your stories. She loves reading, not like me at all since she figured out how to get around her dyslexia. I think she’s a genius, but you know how my brother feels about tests and numbers. It’s all a sham.
Would you tell me stories now? Probably something about stagnation, since you always know the real tales. No, I don’t think I’d like a story like that. Something with cut hands and slow eyes. A blind chess player. A dog named Bandit, aptly. I wonder where your old grab bag is now, that sweat-stained leather with the beading falling off, smelling like smoke and sage. I used to think you kept the sunshine in there on bad days. Always warmed me. Wish I could tell stories like you did. The porpoise and the piano, remember that? And the walking ladder? I think I remember all the ones you told me, better than you do. You gave me the sad cigarette story four times. The pack always with one smoke left, even after someone took it out, because after it touched your lips, it started telling you all the things that would happen to your body. You swore it was true. It changed a little each telling, but not at the end. Sometime the filter pinched, another you got to lighting it and the flame raced down to sear your lips.
You took a few burn marks over time, didn’t you? I remember the one you gave yourself, right through your chest and out through your back. Cattle prods, eh? Of course, no one recommends pissing off a farmer’s daughter.
I’m still sorry about the burn I gave you. I wish you’d told me sooner. I wish I never knew. Do you wish you could take any of your stories back? Would that be one of them? Sun’s going down, it’s like the sky is on fire, red blazing the undersides of the clouds, look at that, green at the rims. Please open your eyes to see, it’s the perfect time for telling stories.
One time you said to me, your body language says you like him. You said, his body says he’s interested. I didn’t know if I wanted you to be wrong or right, it was too much, for me. You saw everything then, why, why can’t you see now? I ask—but I know. I would listen to you for days, black winter nights with nothing but time, cards, tequila, stories, your stories. You read so many books I couldn’t make head or tails of, I could never know for certain if all of them were really yours. I trusted you, though. Trust you.
I would believe any story you wanted to give, just to hear you. There’s no need to insist on facts and lies. Your granny’s tales were the best, and she could stretch them till our sides bust up from laughing and use the guts for string to spin another. I miss her, almost as much as I’ve missed you.
Halcyon mornings, Elysium twilights, the infection of philosophy, seeking perfection. Do you remember—any of it? Perfection is not when there’s nothing more to add, but when there’s nothing left to take away, right? Does that make silence perfect? You never did answer that one. If you were right, then you are perfect now. You’re gone, nothing left behind the still, shut dark eyes.
I remember our promise. I remember our dreams. I remember the stars we wished on, the uncounted sunsets, the drunk dawns. I remember bare ass in the solstice snow under green and pink shimmers of the night sky. I remember how you explained the frostbite to my brother, but he never bought a word you breathed. No matter now. I made a promise, and I’m keeping it, to hold you, always. I’m glad you were never that literal. I’m glad you won’t see this.
Is there someone you wish you could talk to?
This gotta be my favorite along with Quietude. Very sensual.