So break me to small parts
Let go in small doses
But spare some for spare parts
There might be some good ones
- Regina Spektor, "Ode to Divorce"
She keeps on telling herself this is the last time, the last time. And yet she can't help but lift up the layers of papers pinned on the board, an officeday version of an archeologist, searching for that unlabeled series of numbers that represent the only lifeline between her and the man of her dreams.
She falls in love quite easily: once every month, if the statistics are correct. She knows how it begins, how it ends. She writes the script, tosses it on the bed, and slips out of her clothes like a serpent, a mer-woman wanting her sea legs. She wonders why the female body is always associated with those that slip, curve, escape from the rough hands of those who possess. She feels like water most of the time: fluid, transparent, unyielding.
She looks at the numbers, floating like seaweed against the Post-It yellow sea. She tries to punch them into the dial, make her mark into the black buttons that correspond to a person, an invisible tattoo mark that shifts and changes with the tides. But her fingers are crusted with indecision, and she withdraws them repeatedly, unsure what she was doing. There were changes in the script, changes that she was not yet aware of, words rearranging themselves in untidy rows. She was becoming the hunted, not the hunter. This was not in the plan.
All she wanted was to be remembered, to be written down on a page somewhere, correspond to words spilling from a pen in some great unknown space where all that existed was pen and paper and memory. But here she was, sitting in front of a phone, wanting to call into a space and be remembered, and know that she was slowly, frighteningly, being forgotten.