Sarah Maclay

Issue #
September 6, 2013


There was her method of swooning, which involved letting go on an ice rink of shattered

glass, her long red hair strewn over the crackles, cheek bones against ice cube pebbles (in

their sharpness, like a mirror) and the sense that below the ice glass or glass ice was

another room that could be looked into, or looked up from. At around the same time, she

noticed more men staring at her in the grocery store, where she had chosen recently to

expose her eyes—and their wariness—their willingness, now, to assess and retract—a

process she would allow the men to see as it occurred, and though she despised this—

there was the recognition that her prior openness had limits—she saw, at the same time,

their fascination, realized this as a part of the allure of women who had always seemed

somehow “older” than she would ever be, more “knowing,” even when they were young.

It was an animal look—the look of someone interested in survival primarily—that she

hadn’t imagined, especially in moments of dismissal, could attract. But in those moments

on the cold glass, her skin seemed even more pale and translucent—like something not

meant to survive, impossible as protective cover—and the gaze of assessment was trained

on her own face while her body—sinuous and arduously long, angular as a spider—lay in

its mass of hair: puzzling, unforgettable.

There is no previous item
Go back to Top Menu
There is no next item
Go back to Top Menu