Nothing but Your Skin - Cathy Ytak [6]
Later that night, I stood in front of my mirror and I wondered out loud, “How does Matt see me?” I put on my orange parka, my blue gloves, my black hat, and my brown shoes. Would I look all black and brown to you? I thought that autumn in the mountains was not a very good time for us to really get to know each other—you couldn’t see any of my bare skin under all my clothes. But what brought us closer was something a bit hidden, deep within the two of us, something maybe a bit broken. I yell when someone comes up to me too quickly, and you can’t tell the difference between the color of a zucchini and the color of a carrot. Also, we both liked winter, and snow, too. Because it was cold and it was white. And we were burning up inside, but nobody knew it, except you and me. You had come closer to me, slowly, and everything had changed. The snow was a sure color, and the world seemed sure, too.
Now, in the morning, it’s like waking up after a storm. Everything is wrecked and I don’t know if anything’s left. So, lying under my covers, I search my memory. I try to find everything we said, and even everything we didn’t say. The first times, the thousand first times. The first time you really talked to me, when you stopped to show me the bird. The first time you left your side of the path to come walk next to me. The first time you touched my gloves, without meaning to, to help me hold up my big umbrella that was protecting us from the rain and wind. The first time your lips brushed my hat, and my ear under my hat, one night when it was so foggy and I put my hand in yours.
The first time you took off your gloves so you could touch my skin better. The first time my lips found themselves pressed to yours, in one breath. We’ll always have our first times, Matt, no matter what. I have to find them, one by one, and not forget any. I won’t sleep until I’ve found them all.
The first time we kissed, Matt, it was like a door opening. I had talked to you for a long time. I had told you everything. That I was a difficult child, that as a baby I bit myself until I bled—you can still see the scars on my wrists—and that, most of all, I howled. Like a wolf. I told you that my howling even scares dogs, and that’s why dogs don’t like me and I don’t like them either. I told you my parents dragged me from specialist to specialist, secretly, because they were ashamed that up in the town people were starting to gossip that their girl was howling at the full moon. I told you that, and I was afraid you’d make fun of me. But you placed your lips on mine and your kiss was real.
One night, you took me in your arms. “I have something for you. Close your eyes.” You kissed me. I laughed. I didn’t need to close my eyes just for that. You reached into your pocket and you pulled out a wooden object. “Here, this is for you, it’s a present.” Your outstretched hand held a little carved turtle. Suddenly, it made me sad that you were giving me a turtle. “You don’t like it? I carved it for you.”
I didn’t know what to say. I liked it, but it was still a turtle. I mumbled, “It’s a turtle…”
You looked surprised, and you said, “Yeah! Turtles are strong and tough—that’s why it reminded me of you. I sculpted it out of boxwood, it’s a very hard wood. You don’t like it?”
I told you yes, of course I liked it, and I thanked you. But deep down, I said to myself that maybe you were making fun of me for being slow. I didn’t admit that to you until two days later. You were upset that I could think such a thing. I could see how unhappy you were. I hugged you to try to erase all that.
So I made the little turtle into a pendant and wore it around my neck. The next day, my mother asked me where it came from. I said they gave it to me at the school. “A turtle! It suits you.”
I pretended not to know what she meant. I just knew that the turtle made me feel prettier, because it reminded me of us.
Matt, do you know what drew me to you? Do you know what made up my mind? It wasn’t your hands on my face. It wasn’t your lips on my lips, or