It is best not to know her name, the color of her eyes, her favorite season. The ratio of muscle to fat beneath her naked skin. She would never tell how many rats she’s drowned or why the only language her dog understands is Russian. A set of functioning pipes are worth more to her. Her uncle told her that snow is an illusion created by too much faith. It’s better to think she wants it to be this way, with broken floor tiles, uninterrupted light from a bare bulb, her wrists reaching toward the sun. Ambition is often swallowed by necessity. It is best to imagine she has never dreamt in color.
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"Any woman this beautiful is bound to be crazy", said Chance.
I agreed with him. Both of us were, of course, excusing ourselves from introducing ourselves to the model who was leaned up against the wall, next to the photographs, making small talk.
If I had been feeling more confident, I might have managed a few words. I was, however, smarting from my previous encounter that night with feminine beauty--an Eastern European blonde by the name of Magda. It was well known she did not react kindly to admirers, so I disguised my few words inside a brief few pleasantries.
Our mutual defensive posture of self-fulfilling prophecy and lust was meant partially to protect ourselves and partially because we didn't have the courage to approach her.
Camilla's gallery opening had proven to be a huge success. She had even sold five pieces, a record for her. I was surprised none of the self-portrait nude studies attracted more than a passing glance.
This could have been due to the fact that she described her posture as poor when presenting the works to prospective buyers.
Camilla has always been a enigma to me. She's quite comfortable in remaining aloof and mysterious, which is intensely frustrating to someone like me who loves dissecting interesting people.
I can only attribute this to her own miserable childhood and strict religious upbringing.
The kind that walks in yoga poses, pushing mind into body gently and insistently like nervous, horny virgin boys entering aching, guilty virgin girls in stolen corners.
The kind that cooks whole: spice ground from the whole nutmeg, her own clarified butter, her own juice fresh-squeezed, prosciutto wrapped, meringue teased out into peaks on hardwood boards.
The kind that won't answer to an origin, won't admit to a religion, won't submit to our investigation.
That kind.
Pipes
It is best not to know her name, the color of her eyes, her favorite season. The ratio of muscle to fat beneath her naked skin. She would never tell how many rats she’s drowned or why the only language her dog understands is Russian. A set of functioning pipes are worth more to her. Her uncle told her that snow is an illusion created by too much faith. It’s better to think she wants it to be this way, with broken floor tiles, uninterrupted light from a bare bulb, her wrists reaching toward the sun. Ambition is often swallowed by necessity. It is best to imagine she has never dreamt in color.
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