Alas the weekend of Keira has receded to the annals of memory. The humdrum existence of the male has returned and in the void of femininity restlessness abides. Desire still prevails like a nervous tick, a nervous itch; the mind becoming a proverbial authority that the strikes the hand of the heart when it reaches for the blusher or polish.
It is often said that our minds work differently, that our brains are wired a different way from others. Perhaps there was a chemical imbalance when developing in the womb, a chemical soaked up by the brain like a sponge. Perhaps they’re right, but my desires don’t come from my mind, they come from my heart. It is it that aches, when the lip-gloss comes off and the shoes get boxed. It is it that aches, not my mind.
Maybe the mind is right to act in the way it does, for thoughts of friends and family finding me in my secret bring a colour to my cheeks that render blusher unnecessary. When an unexpected knock comes at the door it is my mind that makes my heart stop dead, yet beat faster and harder than it has ever done before. It is my mind that causes the hand on the locked front door to paralyse my body as it hides beneath the window, wishing the dear friend to depart and leave me to my shame. It is my mind that tells me to grab the face wipes and change the clothes, while gleefully whispering, “you don’t have time”. So instead I cower beneath that window. Instead I wait for the car door to close and the engine to start. Instead I peek from beneath the blinds hoping to find a vacant space allotted well-wishers. A void.
I’m restless as a write.
I’m restless as I look in the mirror and see what isn’t there.
I’m restless in the night, when I plan her allotted hours.
So when the weekend is over and Keira is put away with rest of her belongings, I’m left with a heart that aches and a mind that askes “what do we do now?” For life isn’t bleaker without her; for life is never truly that. There is always hope. Life isn’t bleaker; it’s just lost some of its taste, some of its colour. Muted and faded life goes on with a restless nervous tick, a restless nervous itch.