There were things that had happened and kept happening over and over, like a hundred small mirrors in a dark room. Of course, the bride was upset. We had turned over a new leaf, were cleansing ourselves by means ladies forum sarah starvation and herbal unguents we rubbed on the soles of our feet so that everywhere we walked we left traces of our toxins. The apotheosis was conducted through a series of facial exercises that were guaranteed to keep her looking ten years younger than her chronological age.
The bride and groom had rented some boats shaped like swans for the wedding party to arrive in. We held it to our breasts, rubbing it back and forth on our breasts. Finally, we cut it up and made it into a soup. Our husbands think we should be mothers.
It was a story about a swan, a lucky oatcake, a boat, and an evening sky. He was a young buck.
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We told them about the time we lay on her bed under the tapestry, what we saw, what we took. For a while she hung there from a pair of gold hooks she inserted below her shoulder blades. Her mother called. Someone gave us a drink as pink as a berry, as sharp as a nettle. She was interested in self-flagellation; she was documenting cases of scoliosis among teenage prostitutes; she had injected an ink in her eyes that turned the whites permanently black.
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The day was steaming up from the lake bed. Also, she was taking a kind of medication that made her hair fall out along her part so that her part was becoming wider and whiter, the hair that remained on her head looking darker and coarser by contrast.
The groom was a great outdoorsman. One of her secrets was that she had almost been raped. Have you put on some weight? The doll had a wide mouth, always wet, always open. Have you examined your stool against a chart showing optimum consistency and shape? When the day reached the tops of the beeches it turned white, just like that. She was interested in the opposing impulses of Thanatos and Eros, Edo-era pornographic scrolls, tribal dance, basket weaving, the intricate structures of the inner ear, past-life revitalization, crystal theology, scribing through the entrails of freshly slaughtered beeves.
We called our mothers. They knew how to direct things so we did not have to see them, could only feel the hand on our hip, on our breast. The man was slimmer and taller than she and where his legs parted, the ladies forum sarah droop of his sac obscured her pudenda. Did we think we could wait forever? She told us one night while we drank a juice made of nettles and dandelion leaves.
We ladies forum sarah moved to this town with some species of hope and had also started over a of times before. We took turns spinning at the end of the dock, breaking our teeth when we fell onto the rocky shore. Every one of us had taken his hand and put it here, put it here. It was a secret she told us and that night we too had vegetative dreams, the fetid earth heaving above us, our best-loved selves dissolving in the slip of gray rot. Her secrets were how she understood it was herself and not, say, a peanut or a broken-bottomed chair. Just one more time. Put your hand here.
Our lives were so much worse now that she was in them. She played a kind of polka beat she said she had learned from a Transylvanian aroma therapist she met while touring the European circuit. It was supposed to be a stately performance, at sunrise, across a lake gently heaving with large-mouth bass and catfish and some kinds of game trout imported from more wintery climes.
Listen, we knew it was cruel, but we had to have something. Meanwhile, some of us had gotten married. She was so red ladies forum sarah it her skin began to crack and weep a thin pink plasma. For a terrible season we all dreamed we had given birth to an onion. There was going to be a breakfast buffet. We were like babies, wet and small.
Our lives were not what we had been led to expect. None of the boats capsized, but the ladies were still discomfited. She had bled herself pale, breasts flat against her ribs, hair receded almost to the tips of her ears where it flared like the shawl of an inky bird, the sort of bird that builds bowers. From her room we had taken three little bottles of pills: blue pills, green pills, black pills with glossy coating.
The people she knew, she had met under difficult circumstances. She was invited to play the harp, a new accomplishment, at the wedding of a friend of one of our friends. Some of us had painted all the walls of the house green as an onion shoot.
We thought this would be a sort of new beginning. Oh, oh! At the wedding, she wore a dress made out of stinging nettles. Then she moved into an atonal dirge. We had ingested something. She had a tapestry tacked to her ceiling that was red and black and gold and filled with hundreds of tiny mirrors like the hundreds of eyes of a watchful peacock. She invited us to notice the way she used only the muscles in her thighs to express the narrative. One of her secrets was that she actually had been raped.
She set up a scaffold in front of the library. At a party, we took the wrong door out of the bathroom and ended up in her bedroom.
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We had never had any shoes at all. Our husbands had long torsos, blue veins, delicate hands and feet.
It was horrible to see ourselves in the peacock eyes of her bedroom. Our husbands liked to turn us on our sides. We were all such good friends. We were supposed to have the ability to start all over. We could not make ourselves just stay home. Listen, she was sort of a reprehensible figure. We were in the audience, of course. It was when she was in college, a school on the coast that was nevertheless very far from the ocean.
Her skin wept so much from the nettles she left a thick pink slick on the chair when she took a break for lemonade and a turn at the breakfast buffet. Someone knew what it was. It had taken a long time to make it from one place to another.
She had a dream about an onion, the she that was an onion. Have you gotten a chromosomal scan? Our mothers thought we were taking things too far. They paint their nails a coral color, let their hair gray.
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Our husbands inside of us pushed past us and into ladies forum sarah place that was suddenly white, just like that. Nevertheless, at the end of the morning, they were legally obliged. From her room we took pills and a sense of darkness, a stack of letters she had addressed but never mailed. We mixed them together with some other things we had on our own. When we asked her what she was singing, she told us she was exercising her voice for an upcoming performance and then expressed one of her secrets, which were stale and sodden, private examinations into the nature of the body suspended in a state of decay.
There was also a hole for her mouth, so she could speak, and during the play she would walk and speak, lost inside the enormous onion, which had sat too long in its pantry, was sprouting a viridian-green shoot that bobbed tremulously from its crest.
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Our mothers, at some point, guided our trembling fathers inside them and said it was OK, whatever they did next would be all right. We were invited. The bride was enthusiastic. Our husbands might like us to have a baby. We hated each other. We were reminded again how much bigger we were than our mothers by the only very small creak of the mattress beneath their weight.
We had no shoes on. Her mother called and wanted to know why her hair was falling out. An architect bird we almost believed, at that moment, would take flight. She was marrying on a golf course, beside a lake, in the country, at the end of a road lined with beeches. What WEEP?