XLV | Someone I Painted
❦
I’ve decided
to keep a notebook
from now on—
to remember.
Today, I write:
Tammie asked me to
pole dance with her.
I said I’ll think about it
but I’ve already decided
I don’t want to.
How do you want to paint me?
Tammie asks,
hanging from the pole
by her legs.
Her shirt
rides up her chest
(almost coming off
completely),
so she holds it up
with her hands.
Her cheeks are flushed
from the blood
flowing
to her head.
I’m not talented
at painting
or anything
so really,
it doesn’t matter
if she sits still
or continues dancing—
but
I tell her
to stay in that position
until I’m done.
She giggles
like it’s the most exciting thing
ever.
A bit of red, orange, yellow
with a sea of white—
her skin colour.
A bit of black, yellow, green
with a sea of brown—
her hair colour.
I paint her
right side up,
smiling,
face tainted pink,
limbs healthier
than they really are.
I’m only done with the outline
when she starts
to fidget.
Are you tired?
Is it painful?
Tammie
shakes her head
no.
As I paint
more of her features,
I remember more
about the Tammie
from my past.
A girl whose skin
was a brighter shade,
slightly rounder—less boney
than now.
Her eyes a darker grey,
almost black.
You danced
back then too,
I guess,
adding shadows to her arms.
You were in the
modern dance CCA.
But you stopped
going for practice.
Her smile
disappears,
replaced
by a serious frown.
(Luckily,
I’ve already painted
the smile
on her face.)
Tammie closes her eyes and listens
to me recall the past.
We were table partners
in sec three.
Her eyes open,
gaze scalding.
We barely talked
the first half of the year.
Because of you.
Tammie sounds
accusatory
because she doesn’t smile while she says this.
Green paint drips
from the tip of the brush
and runs
down the canvas
like a tear.
Because I had
to go see a lot of doctors.
You started coming
with me
afterwards.
After you found out.
I put down the paintbrush
and dab
at the stain.
It leaves
a permanent imprint.
I realise suddenly
I painted the wrong clothes
for Tammie.
Not her asylum t-shirt and cargo shorts but
our green
school uniform.
Tammie reaches up,
grabs the pole with her hands
and lands on her feet.
She stumbles—
I’m too far away
to catch her.
You were my only friend,
I remember.
Her legs give way
and she falls
on her butt.
I wait for some scalding remarks,
something about the irony,
about my own helplessness,
but she
just
laughs
until her face turns blue.
I don’t know
which is worse.
Not remembering and feeling guilty
or
remembering and
not understanding it.
Even when she can stand again,
Tammie
doesn’t bother
to look at my painting of her.
She just
looks at me,
waiting
for me to remember more—
but there’s nothing else.
Get out.
I want to practice.
I really can’t concentrate
when you’re around.
So I drag
the easel and paints
into the passageway
beside the studio
and paint Tammie from memory this time,
hoping,
to
remember
something
more.
❦
In the notebook
I’ve decided to keep
from now on—
to remember.
I write:
Tammie and I met in sec three.
We became close friends
but something happened.
I hurt her.
I need to quickly remember
it.
❦
