Every Fibre
By Christy Hartman
I love you with every fibre of my being.
Wisps of soft yellow cotton tickle my nose, my eyes, my ears. I sit behind your chestnut hair in homeroom. The desire to crawl into those lavender and mint scented curls is overwhelming. You hold court over our classmates. Your laugh, deeper and richer than it was in September, is infectious but I’m on the outside of your inside jokes.
Itchy coils of green wool grate at my cheeks when you hold her hand. I try to rip them from my face, but the more I pull, the deeper they cut into my skin. They match the jade dress I wear to prom. I force a smile and cling to the arm of my second choice. We dance and I watch the two of you sway awkwardly, I lay my cheek on his chest. We draw closer and the rough wool worms its way between you and her. Our eyes meet. At the end of the summer, you are single again and the coils shrink to emerald knots, nestling where my dimples used to be.
A net of fine pink lace smothers us with only room underneath for two. Our world is golden hour, an eternal hazy sunset painting. Your summer job pumping gas and checking oil drags you from me. The empty space is claustrophobic. The netting clings to my body, pinning me down. You scramble back under, and the cloying air becomes light and sweet. We fall into each other, the lace twists, and strains with our movements. I place a warning hand on your chest. “Don’t move too fast, or it will tear.”
Red jute burns my lungs, fiery threads snake up my throat. You’re impatient for me to move on, to return to the care-free girl you fell in love with three summers ago.
You laugh at a ridiculous sitcom, and I seethe with rage. You ask if I want to join you on a hike with friends. “It’ll be good for you. Get out of bed. Breathe the fresh mountain air.”
Jute flies towards your indifferent face as I scream out. “It’s only been two months.” The crimson cord singes our infected words as we circle each other in the bedroom.
“I know it wasn’t planned, but were you relieved?” The length of rope seeps black cherry, the colour of the dried blood on my hospital sheets. Your response incinerates before it reaches me, and then you’re gone.
Blue linen wraps around my wrists and ankles, tying me to the bed, the couch. Binding me, alone, to the home we used to share. Tears spill from my sunken eyes, cobalt streaks my face and arms. Eventually, the azure cords fade to the pale hue of an early July morning and loosen their grasp on me. Their frayed ends trail behind as I buy groceries, socialize with friends, and smile at a man who says hello at the bus stop. Sometimes I forget they are there until I turn suddenly and trip.
Thin purple bamboo swirls in the air when we bump into each other at our coffee shop. The one where time stood still on our first date. The one I’ve been avoiding for months. I notice the shadows under your dull eyes, like the tender bruises toddlers get when they first learn to walk, stumbling into furniture and walls. You ask if we can talk and the soft bamboo encircles our hands, binding them together as you lead me to our table. I wipe a tear from your cheek. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Strands of white silk weave together in a protective cocoon around my heart. It mimics my wedding dress, and the lily you wear in your lapel. We travel the dance floor, each spin erasing past wrongs, each turn a new promise. Our frayed ends are woven together, strong and unbroken.
I love you with every fibre of my being.
Christy Hartman is a Canadian short fiction writer based on stunning Vancouver Island. She is published in Elegant Literature, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Fairfield Scribes among others. When not writing, Christy can be found floating in the Pacific Ocean or in her kitchen experimenting with creative vegan meals and trying to convince her husband they taste like chicken.