“Intimate Traps” - Excerpt

1.

Araceli’s abdomen rose and fell with her exhausted breath; the white crystal gem on the belly-button jewelry stuck through the skin above her navel caught the light. Pale hairs seemed sensitive to the temperate air, and she turned onto her side so that the round rise of her bony hip created a steep slope down to the knob of her knee. Her arms were limp. Her fine long hair was down and tangled. Blood pulsed visibly through the veins beneath the skin at the crook of her elbow and the side of her neck.

 At times like this, Sky felt predatory, nursing on the image of Araceli’s mortal flesh as if imbibing it visually could nourish some psychic urge to consume Araceli’s vital force. Just now, Sky had awoken from a lucid dream, after which they had woken Araceli.

“I’ll set out breakfast.”

If Sky didn’t forcefully disconnect their attention from the body of their lover, they would have been forced to paint it or sketch it, to capture it in some way to later transfer to clay or some other malleable material, but Sky already had a project in motion that they needed to complete by the end of the term, and they didn’t need the distraction of another right now. So Sky forced themselves to speak and then to head to the kitchen. There they opened the gauzy yellow curtains (an Urban Outfitters find) that covered the window that faced the street. Morning light swanned over the faux-marble counter and stainless-steel sink with a kind of giddy rosy delight that was uncharacteristic of autumn; the birds sounded in love. Sky set the coffee maker to percolating, then opened the dishwasher and retrieved the gray stoneware mugs, two spoons, two forks, two round white plates.

By the time breakfast was set out on the café-style table, Araceli emerged from the bedroom. She must have gotten herself ready at her vanity; her hair was brushed, shining, and staticky. The smooth skin of her face appeared moisturized, and her cheeks showed a hint of cream blush in a shade that complimented her lip balm. She wore soft greyish eyeliner that was waterproof, Sky knew, and mascara that darkened and lengthened her already full lashes (but which would, given enough wetness, weep). She wore fitted black slacks and a blue satin v-neck blouse. The outline of her chest was skimmed over by a large soft white cardigan. A silver necklace with an oblong pendant hung against the skin of her chest. The pendant faintly resembled one of those fetish jewelry vibes that would buzz on command, but Araceli’s piece was solid metal. From her ears, clusters of silver threads dangled to her jawbone, brushing softly against the sides of her face when she turned her head.

Araceli took a seat at the table across from Sky and picked up a knife to butter her toast. 

Sky must have been staring, because Araceli looked up at them. 

“What?” 

Sky hesitated; it took a mental push to make the words come out, just as it had taken a push for Sky to force themselves to look away from Araceli this morning.

“I’ve been thinking…” they said, but stopped there.

“Thinking?”

“Well… no. Not thinking. More like, feeling.”

“Feeling… what?” Now Araceli looked at Sky with the kind of sober attention that a person had when they felt the status of their relationship was in question… feeling like we should get married; feeling like we should break up… these were the kinds of things one might be feeling when presented in a tone like this.