Tina Hal - The Physics of Imaginary Objects

Ben said, “That doesn't sound like a wasp at all.”

Any rational man would lust after Marco's girlfriend, but Ben was drawn instead to Pale Johnnie's wife who, as far as he knew, had never painted her nails in her life. She also did not run but stayed at home baking zucchini bread and watching the kids while Pale Johnnie took to the road nearly every weekend for the race season from April to October. They had four boys, all loud and blond. Meg had large hips and wore khaki shorts that were perpetually wrinkled in unflattering ways. She sat with her thighs apart and her head cast back, snoring slightly in the chair next to Ben. The youngest son, still a baby really, was snuggled into her belly, his face nuzzled into her shirt. Ben imagined the folds of her skin were crusted with spit-up and potato salad, that she was the kind of woman with a disintegrating Kleenex tucked into her bra. Her hair frizzed everywhere and her arms were freckled like a giraffe's skin. She had beautiful knees, perfectly round and aligned, no scars or arthroscopic puckers. They were the knees of a woman half her age. Ben wanted to take one in each hand and just hold it, like an apple. He felt aroused just thinking of it, picturing himself kneeling between her legs, cupping each precious knee.

The sun was setting, and a breeze finally kicked up. Ben heard Jessamy's squeal of excitement. The chicken charred on the grill. In the barn, five hundred wasps hatched in unison. Ben flexed his Achilles tendon compulsively, absentmindedly, like a violinist tapping out a rhythm with his toes. Across the field of dead and unplanned plants, the kite ripped into the air.

She wakes thinking today she'd like to eat eggs. All night she dreamed of a hard-boiled one, white and gold. She wakes thinking an egg is something beautiful to own. The sun is bright in the shelter. All the windows are bare. The sun is as bright as a memory. The sun is too bright in her. It is as bright as

Her knees glow in the shower. She scrubs them hard. They are red and wistful. She has given up on soap. Soap is for sisters taking baths together. Soap tastes like Sunday nights. Now, everything is scrubbing. She scrubs too hard to be clean. It is hard to scrub oneself clean. It is hard to be clean. It is hard to be

The man who stands next to the doughnut shop is dirty. He has long hair like vines. He asks her questions. His hair twists words. His hair spells starvation. She pays for a piece of it. She pays for a piece of hair to make a rope of. She pays for a piece of hair to weave a meal of. It is hard. It is hard to make anything clean.

Her knees hurt too much to walk outside in the sunlight. The sun can hurt. Sometimes a child is at school during a solar eclipse. Sometimes a child is at recess during a solar eclipse. Sometimes a child is waiting for her turn on the swingset when everything is shadow.

She remembers. She remembers that one can go blind and not even know it. She remembers the sun isn't always bright. The sun can make things dark. She remembers how the sun can make everything

Inside the drugstore there is shade. Everything is hidden from the sun. She is hiding enough hair for a meal. There is a storekeeper to hide from. But he is watching television. He does not see her. He can see paper-thin people. He has mirrors to watch them. He has a television. He has a special type of vision because his store is so dark. But he does not see her. He doesn't want to. He has a television instead of the sun. He has a television to make things bright. He has a way of making people paper-thin.

A lot of things can feed a person. It doesn't have to be a snare made of hair. She loosens pills from their boxes and bottles to see them. She doesn't like the brown pills. She doesn't like the red pills, either. Brown and red are colors for leaves in the forest. Brown and red can be stretched into squares on a pretend sofa. Brown and red leaves are big enough to block the sun. Brown and red leaves are big enough for paper dolls to live in. But not big enough for her.

Paper dolls never die. But their heads fall off. Sometimes sisters play on brown and red leaves with paper dolls. They have to be careful. Even when wrapped with Scotch tape the necks are too fragile.

The storekeeper's mouth opens wide when he laughs. But then it closes again. She saw, though. She saw silver hidden in his teeth. She saw silver like stars. He laughs again. The people on the television are so paper-thin it's funny. The people on television are so thin you can see through them. They would not make a good eclipse. She finds the white pills.

These are the ones she likes.

These are the ones smooth enough to be eggs. Eggs can only grow smooth in the water. Eggs only grow smooth with a lot of scrubbing. These are the ones smooth enough to be her kneecaps. She scrubs her body every morning as if

It's hard to make a clean meal. But it is easier if the pills are white. The pills have to be white and stolen. The pills have to be white as the sun. The pills have to be white as soap on Sunday. She hides them in her shoes. The storekeeper is laughing, not laughing. Each time he opens his mouth, the store gets darker.

She has to go back into the sun. But she walks close to the buildings to avoid noon. Her kneecaps don't like day. Neither do her elbows. Day means sun. Day means a knob in the shower that has to be turned all the way. Day means hot. It has to be hot enough to

Her kneecaps and her elbows like shadows. They like wrinkles. They treasure most skin that has pulled away from the sun. Every morning she scrubs away the wrinkles. Her elbows cry all day for more.

They were proud of that skin.

She walks close to the buildings to hide from sun. She is searching for something to eat. She is searching for food, maybe the kind of food that comes from a door marked Palm Reader. The kind of meal that can read wrinkles in a hand. The kind that maps lines in skin. Wrinkles can be translated into words. Wrinkles are dangerous. She tries to scrub them smooth as eggshell. She tries to wear them down. But her skin resists her. Her skin resists water. Her skin is too proud.

The palm reader tells her to put her hand on the table. She tells her to put two dollars on the table.

The palm reader is a large woman with no hair. She has teeth even and white like a painting. She has teeth like a photograph in a magazine, like a row of quail eggs. They don't look real.

The palm reader is touching her hand, testing the thickness of skin. She says it's not worth telling futures, only pasts. The palm reader touches her hand. She watches her skin stretch. Her skin is trying. Her skin is trying to give up a memory. It is hard to remember. She scrubs every morning to forget. It is hard to be clean. It is hard to remember without wrinkles.

The palm reader says river. A river is a way to eat. A way to wait for the fat ones to drink, to step into the trap. And if that doesn't work, there are fish with their spider bones and their slipshine eyes like coins in a pocket.

Sometimes a sister dies in a river.

Sometimes two sisters are playing and one goes into the river. Sometimes two sisters are playing tea party with white cups and imaginary boiled eggs and brown and red leaves by the water when everything is shadow.

A river is not a clean death.

Sometimes a sister looks at the sun so long she goes blind for a little bit. Sometimes when she can see again, something is missing. A river is not clean. There is no way to look through it, to see what might be hiding inside. Sometimes the skin resists water. Sometimes a person stays in the bath too long. Sometimes a person stays in water long enough to grow wrinkles. Sometimes a person stays in water even longer. She says river. The palm reader's room is shaking. The palm reader's earrings are trembling. Everything is falling. She sees an eclipse. She feels an earthquake. She sees an eclipse moving over the lamp. It is only a cat.