Ekphrasis – 7

Carmen Maria Machado

The roof access door sticks a little, but you lean your weight against it and stagger onto the gravel. A waist-high cement ledge that circles the roof is the only thing between you and the pavement. There, so close to the sky that you once watched with Ben, you are overwhelmed with a sense of peace, more real than anything you have felt in ages. It’s like he’s here with you, his strong fingers digging deep into the tight muscles of your shoulders. “Just relax,” you imagine him saying, dropping the words into your ear so gently they tickle. “The painting isn’t going anywhere. Just take a deep breath.”

 

The night is cool with almost no wind. You crunch to the edge and lean against the wall, looking out over the city. The sky over the buildings glows a dirty orange. You can see the mountains. Directly over your head, the brightest stars fight against the rash of light pollution.

 

You and Ben drove through the desert, once, and in the middle of nowhere, with nothing behind you and nothing ahead of you, he stopped the car. You’d only been dating for a few months, so when he opened the passenger door and offered his hand, you weren’t entirely sure he wasn’t going to murder you. But then he lifted you onto the roof of the car and hoisted himself up, and he kissed you on the mouth and said, “Look,” and lifted his eyes to the sky.

 

You did, and there it was, the Milky Way, all crushed velvet and smeared starmatter, and you didn’t know you could see it with your naked eyes. You didn’t know it was possible.

 

Here, even Orion struggles to be seen. You press your forehead against the wall, and you can feel the stippled cement leaving an imprint in your skin. Your roll your head back and forth. Music pulses from a passing car. Maybe you should go back down and look at the painting. Maybe you should go do your job.

 

 

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