The 1

HAGS writes to his ani girl.

Dear Pinky,

When you read this, I’ll be gone. It’s been a long time of this, a long time running, the years wasted without you. I missed you. I missed writing to you properly. When it was good, I would walk around collecting things in my head to tell you about at the end of the day.

The flash of a hummingbird. hot lemon juice dripping off a crepe. train whistles. Once right after Rue des Rosiers by the gelato place your uncle loved, I saw a couple that looked like us. Honestly they went by pretty quick, but the posture was right. It was a girl on a bicycle trilling the bell and a boy on a skateboard and she was gripping his shoulders to her waist as she sort of crouched and somehow sped along the road. They were younger. it was late. they had better places to be. They went so fast.

You were always the one guiding me, love. I was just along for the ride. I know that now. Every step I’ve taken every breath and smile. The deals I’ve made the hands I’ve crossed with silver. All for you for the good dream of us.

Even when it was bad I remembered you minute by minute. It was never that bad for me. Not when you cheated or forgot about me or ignored my calls. I would try to imagine you as a child. You were such a lonely little girl, Ani. I remember her. The ambassador’s daughter, so quiet at his side. The poster boy’s twin, so glum compared to his golden smile. You were always golden to me, always. Ruby and emerald and platinum is my girl.

So when you’d take your old hurts out on me— when you were mad at your daddy or your brother or any of the useless fucks you dated before or after me but I was the one who never left so I got the hits they deserved— I didn’t mind. Truly, Ani. I just saw you as that wounded little thing. Ribbons at the end of your braids, shiny shoes that punch your poor tiny feet. Wouldn’t it be nice to rest, my honey bee?

I think so. I would love to rest. I want a full three weeks where nobody’s trying to kill me, just to remember what it feels like. Or learn I guess. I’m sure you saw the headlines about my family. You and me, baby. Marked for slaughter. Born to die.

Maybe that’s why we both have such bad luck. Every hour we’re still here on what passes for the living realm, that’s time that we didn’t really deserve, did we?

Always at the wrong place wrong time. Wrong crowd wrong job terrible lighting. Not the right darling curled up muttering in my rented bed. Not you.

I don’t believe that you’re clumsy. I know that’s why you think you don’t have a real artistic career. I still love your poems. Yes, I found your blog. I find everything! But really, you are quite graceful. You just have bad luck. Maybe mine rubbed off on you. Maybe I stole some of your charms.

Soon as we started dating, I began contracting injuries like a teddy bear collects germs in a middle-class daycare.

I nicked myself on the banister, remember?

One hundred years of flawless wax and polish until I came around.

Maybe everything had to break with us early. I think I knew that even then: the hurt would be so big so wide that I had to start feeling it before we even kissed.

Kissing. I haven’t thought about that in a while truly. I finally learned from my mistakes with you Ani. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.

Your lips were so so soft. Even when you chewed them up all raw I never really tasted the blood. My rosebud. my fraise. Starlight and cherry blossoms. that’s what you’re made from.

Me. God made from bone and flesh. So I came over when you invited me. I came when the prettiest girl I’d ever seen called. Of course I did. I’m a born sucker. I came and I wanted to sweep you off your sore ballerina feet and take you away from your haunted mansion as soon as you opened the door. You were in some old black shirt but I could see some yellow lacy froth underneath it.

I wanted to do bad things to you right in your parents’ hallway but I didn’t because I was a man and we weren’t kids anymore but your hair was in soft braids and still damp from your bath but I was a man then. Now I’m your ghost.

I came inside and put my shoes next to your dad’s loafers then you made some insane pasta that hopefully will be my next meal. if not my last. and we watched cricket with your dad for hours. possibly years. before he started snoring on the couch and you kept nudging him to just go to bed already. It was really cute. You care about your family so much. I wish I was in it. I wish we grew up closer together. I could’ve protected you.

Dad finally limped off to bed and again. I wanted to fuck you on the loveseat. We were across the parlour from each other. I could see more of the yellow sundress, and your legs. Jesus Christ. I might have time to paint soon. if I live. I’ve gotten better at it. Pinky. I might be able to capture you soon. The curves. the length. Supple pliant flexible. Bendy bendy girl.

So I wanted to jump your bones but you wanted to show me something upstairs. In your old attic bedroom. I’m glad you walked ahead of me so you didn’t see me pawing the rosary in my pocket but you know now! I want you to know everything. sweetheart. That way we won’t have to talk so much when I finally see you.

We went upstairs and the sight of your thighs climbing the spiral to the attic. a few steps ahead of me. I’m trying to keep it clean. Holy girl.

So there was a lot of blood pumping through me. clearly. all your fault, when you paused and realised your parents had fought so Dad was sleeping on your pullout couch. which meant we had to find someplace else for your imminent deflowering. Roses and cherry blossoms. Mine mine mine.

I know you weren’t a virgin then. obviously. But I think the first time any couple sleeps together— that’s a new threshold. A border a portal. I love the in-between spaces but i love those doors and windows too. Break in case of emergency.

So we turned around and I was descending too quickly I guess because I nicked myself so hard on some loose gash of wood. And then it was another hour of us not fucking as you tried to dig a splinter out. We could see it under my skin remember? On my ring finger there’s still a scar. My hand under the light, the dark hangnail of wood under layers of my stupid pink skin. You so small worried. bent over me. I loved you then and I love you now. My nurse my Angel my sunshine.

You sanitised and bandaged me and offered to drive to a doctor since our at-home surgery proved useless but I said it was fine and you cooed. Yes I remember. Sweet little girl sounds. that’s what you made for me.

So you led me to the library. It was quiet and full of books. Okay. laugh at me. you’re the writer. You write it down. You looked so pretty under the sconces. I had thought of too many bad things that I circuler around to good things. which was great because you were getting closer. I could smell the last cigarette you had. Naughty girl.

You were saying something about a guy I hated immediately. Not good enough for you never. At least I know I’m a sucker.

You were engaged or you had a ring. When we were younger I would’ve cared. I don’t have many morals left. That’s what I told you then.

Before pulling you in. My love my only. And I wanted to get a shot so I could draw you later so I stood back thought it hurt me to stop kissing you to let you go for even a moment.

You tasted like pasta and pink wine and strawberries and a thousand years of sunsets.

You were so perfect for me. You posed by the ladder looking all dreamy. You found the light tilted your head pouted. Undid your hair your black shirt. Showed off the yellow yellow yellow cotton lace underneath. Wicked princess. Little thief.

That’s not my favourite picture of you Pinky. Ani. Anya. Sasha. Stacii. Anastasiia Lazaravichya de Franckelle. Mrs Salazar, maybe sooner than we think. I plan and God chokes on his bile with laughter. He knew what he was doing when he made you. crafted every darling swell and gap. Me, who knows. But we were made for each other.

You are my open wound. My blood, my pulse.

My favourite picture of you: I’ll tell you another time. Stay tuned.

Your friend and lover,

Dixie