Austin Rory Hackett

Her Sharper Bones

She calls again. She says she wants me to come over, but no kissing tonight she says. She apologizes, says that’s the deal though tonight. I say maybe and then get in my car and drive over. I always forget how long it takes to get to her house. Too many lights. Too far from the freeway. Her roommate lets me in and points to the bedroom. All the girls in the house are bigger than her, which makes me wonder if she chose them on purpose to make herself feel skinny. I go into her room and she’s on the bed. I lie down. Her mattress is memory foam. It slowly accepts me. She’s playing with a remote control for the lights and ceiling fan. I ask to see it and then mess with everything: dimming, brightening, speeding, slowing. I lay back and pay attention to the lights. At first I thought there was a gradual shift from bright to dark, but the third or fourth time I go through the whole spectrum I realize that it actually shifts in noticeable steps, quanta, abruptly changing from one level to the next, but subtly enough that I didn’t catch it at first. I decide this doesn’t mean anything and put the remote back down, leaving the lights dimmed. Dimmed lights seem cliché so I pick the remote back up and turn them off. The white sheets look blue now. I turn to her and nothing happens.

We list things we’re bad at. Pottery, I say. She says keeping appointments. Me again: enunciating, political correctness, organization. Her: controlling her temper, gossiping, math. She asks me what I think I’m really good at. I say word games and chemistry, but let’s go back to the bad list. She makes a dismissive noise, rolls to her side and starts playing with her phone. I love the feel of her sharper bones, so I touch her ankles, her shins, her spine, and she doesn’t mind but sometimes I push too hard, trying to feel the imperfections on the surface of the bone, the small bumps and ridges hidden by forgiving skin. She twists away when it hurts, then comes back without saying anything. I can’t feel much detail because my fingertips are numb from too much rock climbing this week. I drag them from her sleeve to her arm and can’t tell the difference. I close my eyes and try to guess where the boundary is to see if I’m just tricking myself. I guess right once and wrong twice. I decide that’s statistical proof that they’re actually numb. I tell her this and she says oh. I wait to see if she expounds on that but she doesn’t. I keep going from sleeve to arm, sleeve to arm, seeing but not feeling where the fabric starts and ends. She says why are you so aloof? I say aloof on the roof and laugh. She says that’s exactly what I mean. I keep sliding from sleeve to arm and back. After a while I ask her what time she has to wake up and she says seven. I shouldn’t stay long, I say, I should let you get some sleep. Okay, she says, can I see you again tomorrow? I say I’ll let you know, good night. But I don’t move. I keep touching her sleeve and arm and close my eyes to see if my fingers really are numb or if I’m just trying to trick myself. I guess wrong first and then right: an even split that proves nothing.