Michael Rizza - Cartilage and Skin

She held his hand more tightly against her throat, and as she leaned back, pulling him down on top of her, he brought his mouth first to her lips and then to her neck, pressing himself against her and searching her midriff with his hand until her shirt pulled loose and her naked stomach momentarily contracted and then eased beneath his touch, while her own hand, which had previously dangled over the side of the couch, now found its way onto his back, to feel him and hold him closer, and he seemed to want to burrow his face into her neck, as if all he wanted to know about the girl’s body was her current offering: merely her stomach and neck because, without her permission, he didn’t dare to explore any further, even though he was pressing against her and her hips were rising to meet him and both of her hands were pulling him down, and then he was beginning to take his cue from her motion, to follow her lead, so now his hands seemed at liberty to slip beneath her and touch her back, as though she’d asked him to venture, to hold her tightly and draw her up against him, allowing his hands, not to glide, but to move in clutches from her shoulder blades down to her hips, as if he somehow wanted to crush or devour her, and her hands were also moving, unabashed and tactful, as if she had never known fear or shame or anything else that might have held back her desire, clasped it down until it strained hard and furious against the seams, as if desire were something that she could regulate and control, rather than something that simmered and gathered strength, and thus she possessed liquid ease, in her torso and her limbs, all the while he rushed spastically forward, uncoiling in avid fits and bursts, even though she was showing him, perhaps by instinct, how a body moves and finds a rhythm within itself, her hands roaming without fear, her body yielding, arching and rising to meet him: the boy who labored above her with apparent and clumsy self-consciousness, which now — despite her flesh undulant, warm, and human beneath him — was beginning to fall away in flakes, leaving him all alone in his lust, because even though she was slender and soft, he seemed as if he needed to wreck himself against her, to bash himself to pieces, like a ship caught adrift, a captain-less vessel tossed against a rocky shore, pulled away by ebbing waters and then smashed again and again with the heaving of water, pulled away and then smashed, as if the only way to reach a deeper level within himself, to venture into mystery, was to become undone.

XVI

Water trickled in the dark, and farther away, beyond the arched opening, rain fell, and the wind, blowing across the face of the opening, filled the interior with a rushing sound, as if the entire edifice itself were moving and the collection of people inside, scattered and sprawled out upon the cement floor, were its passengers, but nothing was actually moving, save for the flicker of firelight and shadow against the back wall, while a woman’s voice — somewhat harsh but jovial, originating not from any one of the dark forms in particular — wasn’t something that really moved, though it possessed a strange kind of force or agency that seemed to give it a presence, perhaps simply because it was the only human sound rising intermittently from among the mute, motionless figures. “Little fucker,” the voice sounded, “throw him another piece,” and then paused, “he eats almost anything,” as the rain fell and the wind rushed “probably ate his own toes” across the opening and the water trickled down the cement walls and the fire “throw him a raw piece this time” flickered against the back wall “a raw piece, damn it” the voice loud but then halting all at once in abrupt silence until softly, coaxingly “yes, yes, go on, you sweet-mouth fucker, go on, eat it” and then laughing.

XVII

There was one boy now. He leaned his head against the bus window and stared out at the edge of the road as it whipped along in a flickering procession of broken images whose only connection to one another was the fluidity of motion, as if the world were a thing that slid and darted past in an unbroken line; or perhaps the continuity was not exactly motion, but time, and the sliding was an illusion of the eye, so the world was actually stable, indivisible, and yet set into motion and set into time by whatever head leaned against the window and stared out at the passing landscape.

When the bus stopped and the doors opened, the boy stepped out onto the sidewalk. The bus rumbled for a moment and then started away, leaving behind the odor of its blue-gray exhaust. The day was clear, dry, and hot. The boy was dressed in a tee-shirt now; the legs of his navy green sweatpants had been cut off, to turn the pants into shorts. He walked without haste, his wounded foot moving at a pace slightly slower than his other foot. Now that his hair was cropped and a bright agility colored his hazel eyes, the boy’s full, pouting lips, which had once given him a feminine quality, seemed to make him appear strangely angry. A dog barked at him, but unaffected, he walked on. The suburban streets were mostly peaceful. A few cars passed. In the distance, a lawn mower roared. The boy seemed to be governed by instinct as he selected avenues to turn down, continuing with his measured pace, not bothering to lift his head to look at street signs or houses. Eventually, he turned up the driveway to the yellow house where Kyle had once lived. The real estate sign leaned in the lawn, and the agent’s brass lock-box was fastened to the front doorknob. The boy tried the knob, and finding it locked, he went around to the back of the house and also tried the back door. He crossed his arms and stood on the concrete slab for a while, staring up at the house. At first, he seemed almost rigid, but then he cocked his hips and lowered his head. He continued to stand, as if waiting for something. After a while, he walked around to the front of the house and tried the handle again. He didn’t make any noise, not even to ring the bell or knock on the door. With his back to road, his hips cocked, and one thumb tucked under the waistband of his shorts, he stared up at the house for a long time. The boy didn’t seem angry or scared; he didn’t seem like anything at all.

Although I had made an earnest effort to encounter life and tried to seduce whatever I could, from abstract flesh to abstraction in the flesh, from bovinity to probity, I was thwarted at every turn, as though all of society had conspired to keep me an isolated creature. People seemed indifferent to a person’s particular obsession, whether lofty or depraved, as long as he stuck to himself. This was the modern revision to Christ’s golden rule: Don’t bother your neighbor. Everyone seemed hopelessly ignorant of the mental machinery of a certain kind of reclusive man; no matter if he were an academic, a pervert, or a poet, going inward was always a descent. Of course, many fine citizens — who are contently enmeshed in their ordinary lives and even shake their heads in confusion and disgust at the random madman presented in the press — would themselves turn into completely different animals if their attentions weren’t so occupied with the average routines and customs of culture. Deprived of this external reference point, they would find themselves lacking definition. If they continued to look outward, they’d become susceptible to the first appealing figure or Führer that cared enough to remake them. However, if a man happened to look inward, even just for a glance, then the real devolution would begin, until finally one day he would be pulled out of his little hole and exposed to the bright lights, clicking cameras, and ordinary citizens shaking their heads in confusion and disgust.