14B Tower Workshops
My skin against hers is mottled with stretchmarks. My skin looks almost purple in this light. She gleams like she has been freed from stone. This light is for her. The black is for her white. I leap into the air as she does. In the photograph I look like her shadow.
Later, looking at the images with him, he claps with delight at an injury that looks like a cigarette burn on my hip, and a scar on my arm. I say I don’t recognise myself. My shoulder blades are like broken musical instruments in a bag.
“I’ve made you look Romanesque,” he says, “But you don’t really look that way at all.”
He draws attention to my left side, which he says is my best. I disagree out of habit.
He tied a pink ribbon around my waist and kneeled in front of me, and when I got home I fell into a deep sleep.
