Ribs
BY LIVVY JEAN
Perhaps it is easier if before we tell the story of Eve on the table with her legs hiked up in the stirrups and the cold speculum inside her, we tell the story of Eve standing in an art museum watching a naked woman drink a gallon of whole milk while a strange neon montage plays in the background depicting mothers and babies and mothers with babies.
This is terrible, Eve says to her boyfriend at the time.
I know, he responds, the predestined curse of motherhood is a constant and monitored cycle.
No, Eve says pointing to the exhibition dates on the pamphlet, she is gonna be doing this every day for a month — all that whole milk will make her fat.
Her boyfriend looks at her. He is tall and handsome and likes to put his cigarette butts into strangers’ mailboxes without considering if the owner of the house is trying to quit nicotine. He does this without ever wondering if because of him they can no longer pay their bills without licking their tongues dry on infused envelopes. In short, he’s an asshole — just like Eve we could argue, but we will not.
You don’t get it, Eve, he says, this is art. Who mothers the mothers when their mothers need mothers?
Eve doesn’t respond and stares at the woman. She is half way through the gallon of milk, a bucket is nearby for her inevitable vomit. Eve looks around at the audience, mostly men in the crowd with their eyes wide hoping the woman will stop and shake her belly so they can place their ears against her and listen to the milk swish around.
This is not art — it’s prostitution.
Prostitution is art, her boyfriend says.
They have dinner at Remo’s and drinks at a new bar named Chaos. In the Uber back to her apartment, Eve gives him a handy to distract herself from the fact that nothing good is playing on aux. She goes to bed at 2 AM and wakes up in the middle of the night quietly crying over the Maybelline Super Plumper lip gloss she lost back in high school.
Perhaps it is easier if before we tell the story of Eve holding her lower stomach in pain, we tell the story of Eve, as a teenager, kneeling in front of a toilet vomiting.
There is a boy behind her — a boy she likes and there is a moth above her — that keeps ramming its thin body into the bathroom light and there is a girl outside — banging on the door yelling at Eve to swallow it up or else she is gonna piss herself.
Eve grips the side of the toilet. Her knuckles go as white as the ceramic as she tries to prevent herself from falling in.
She is on her knees but this time she is in her school’s handicap stall and the boy is in front of her. Zipper down. He is so pale and skinny that Eve imagines his bones glowing in the dark and moths hovering around him. They only do that because they’re cold, a girl once told her– no, not a girl — her mother said this to Eve. They sat on the back porch and watched the moths circle a light. Eve called them stupid because how didn’t they know it was summer.
The boy is asking Eve if she is okay.
I don’t know, Eve says, her voice echoing within the toilet, I don’t know what is happening.
You drank too much, it’s okay — it’s okay.
The girl is now banging on the door in a pattern. One hit, then two, then one and a three, the cycle repeats until the boy opens the door. He calls her a bitch and then closes it in her face. There is a brief moment of silence until Eve vomits again, permitting the girl to resume her song.
Eve looks at the boy but this time they are in Algebra II and he is asking her if he can borrow a pen. He tells her that he is always losing his things and he thinks Eve should know because he really wants to be her friend, and for a second, Eve really does believe they will just be friends. The girl is walking with Eve to the cafeteria and telling her that everyone knows what she and that friend of hers did together in the handicap stall and Eve is with her mother. They are watching the moths and there is a boy behind her — helping her stand up towards the sink.
I’m gonna grab you some water, he says and leaves. The door opens. The girl is not there anymore. Eve wants to call for her to come back, but she does not know her name. Instead, she looks up at the moth. It has not stopped smacking its body against the light. She grabs some toilet paper and wipes the vomit from the corners of her mouth. The boy comes in with a cup of water.
Thank you, Eve says and slushes it around before spitting it out.
Are you feeling better?
Eve doesn’t respond and instead points to the moth.
Do you think animals can commit suicide?
The boy looks at her. Even after throwing up in front of him Eve is pretty enough to get away with asking questions like these.
I don’t think so, the boy says and looks at the moth, how would they know?
I guess they wouldn’t, Eve says and turns off the light but doesn’t leave. She and the boy stand in the dark bathroom. No words pass between them.
His bones do not glow.
The girl pees in the kitchen sink.
The boy wonders if he and Eve are good enough friends to have sex and Eve is—is—her mother on the porch watching the moths — their bodies crackling every time they touch the light—how would they know.
Perhaps it is easier if before we tell the story of the doctor asking Eve if she bleeds after sex, we tell the story of Eve’s first introduction to blood on toilet paper.
She sits on the edge of the bathtub while her mother stands above her dragging a lice comb through her hair. The smell of tea tree oil is strong and burns the inside of Eve’s nose. The small teeth of the comb scratching her scalp into rows waiting to be planted and useful. Her mother is rough and tired. Eve woke her up in the middle of the night crying.
Did you have that dream again? her mother asked.
No, no — I’m just so itchy.
Down there?
No, up here, Eve said and pointed to her head.
The sound of her mother’s noise machine can still be heard from her room across the hall. Set to rain sounds, Eve listens to artificial droplets falling. She tries to pretend they are real as her mother pulls the lice out in clumps. Their bodies accumulating on a nearby piece of toilet paper before she squishes them into red dots.
Why are they doing this to me? Eve asks her mother and begins to tear up.
Eve, please — they don’t know they are doing this to you. This is just what they do. This is all they know.
I don’t like them — they make me feel so dirty, she says unable to contain herself anymore. Eve’s mother tries to soothe her. She kisses the top of Eve’s head. Nits sticking to her lips.
They will stop soon.
What if they don’t?
They will, her mother says, it all stops eventually.
Eve stares at the toilet paper. The red spots connect together like a makeshift constellation. She keeps her eyes open. All she sees are spirals.
Perhaps it is easier if before we tell the story of Eve noticing that her discharge is watery and rotten smelling, we tell the story of Eve watching her friend Amy squatting behind a dumpster. Her thong to her ankles, sequined black mini dress hiked up. Grayish blood clots escape her in clumps. Staining the pavement below her as inkblots that the guy who takes out the trash will step on without second thought.
There has to be a public restroom somewhere, Eve says, trying to pull Amy up from the ground, please this isn’t safe.
Amy looks up at Eve. Her eyes are bulging and bloodshot. She is a frog begging for dissected. Knees already opened. Mucus hands slicing her bloated stomach and pointing to the liver. Please take it — I don’t care if I sink. The smell of the club they were at before fades into garbage — the garbage becomes formaldehyde. Concrete tin tray. Amy is a sweet girl. Eve hates her but she really is a sweet girl.
Amy liked to tell the guys she slept with that she was a virgin.
Why? Eve would ask her.
They were always nicer, softer with their touch.
Sometimes she would tell the guys that she was a lesbian and that they were her first man.
They would be so happy, feel so proud.
Or she would tell the guys that she was allergic to strawberries.
Why?
So they would think of me every time they had a strawberry. Maybe they would even tell the friend they were sharing the strawberries with that they used to sleep with a girl who was allergic to strawberries and that girl would be me.
And sometimes Amy would punch herself when she was mad and pretend the bruises were from one of those men who was angered by her virginity, lesbianism, allergies, or all three.
Eve did not care to ask why.
Amy is a sweet girl but she is also a frog and there are too many Amys in the bucket. They stare at each other — watching their own reflection through identical eyes — wondering who will be taken next. Each of them hoping it will be different from what they were destined to become.
Amy? Amy, please talk to me.
Eve lowers her body to meet Amy’s eyes. She kisses her forehead. Holds her amphibian hands.
Can you please get up for me?
Amy doesn’t try to. Eve watches as cramps and nausea overtake her. Amy lets her body collapse to the cold ground becoming intertwined with blood that could’ve been more.
Lesbian. Virgin. Strawberries. She is nothing but a frog who lost her liver before she even knew she had one.
She already hated me.
Amy —
I would’ve given her water. I would’ve put salt in her food.
Amy —
She would’ve been pretty though. Not as pretty as you, but pretty like me.
Perhaps it is easier if before we tell the story of the doctor saying to Eve that there is something very strange about her cervix, we tell the story of Eve dreaming of two dogs fighting.
She is nine the first time it happens. Two slim dogs. Twisting around each other. Snapping their teeth. Slamming their bodies. High pitched barks that only briefly pause when they bite each other. Eve wakes before there is blood. Gasping and confused. Dampness between her legs.
She is eleven dreaming of the dogs again. They are facing each other in silence. Muzzles against one another. So close their ears are touching. It is just them. No field or sky. No sound of cars in the distance or leaves blowing. Two dogs in complete darkness and Eve is there, but she is not there. She is watching it all from above like an accidental God with no hands. They lunge at each other simultaneously, and even though Eve can see their mouths howling in pain, she hears nothing but moans.
Dreaming of two dogs fighting again when she is thirteen. She wakes up in the morning to the sound of her neighbor Darrell screaming. Eve has never heard a man scream before and becomes instantly disturbed. She runs outside still in pajamas. Her mother is by him, her mouth agape. Her car in the street still running.
You killed him! You killed him you fucking bitch!
He is yelling at Eve’s mom as he holds his dog in his arms. Bloody and mangled. Head tilted and broken but eyes still opened.
He came out of nowhere, Darrell — I didn’t see him — I promise you I didn’t see him, her mother says and tries to move towards Darrell but he pushes her into the ground and when she stumbles to get up, he just pushes her harder.
I’ll fucking kill you, he says and then looks at Eve and points to her, but I’ll kill her first and then you’ll know how I feel.
He looks down at Eve’s mother one more time and spits in her face before scooping up his dead dog and bringing him home.
Her mother stands up and wipes away the saliva.
Men and their dogs. That is all they know, she says and walks back into the house.
Eve does not move, though. She is watching Darrell through his living room window. He places the dog on the carpet. Brings the dog water and food. Shaking chew toys in front of his bloody face.
Come on. Come on. You love this one, Eve imagines him saying to his dead dog. Dead dog. Eve knows that this is all her fault and when she goes to bed and dreams of the dogs again she forces herself to wake up. She touches herself out of guilt until she is dry and exhausted and yet when she falls back asleep all she sees are the dogs.
She is fifteen and they are still in her dreams. Their mouths already opened. Teeth sharp and lonely. They bite each other’s neck over and over again stopping just before their heads fall off. Eve watches as they move away from each other with shame in their bloated eyes. She wonders if they were just trying to make love and got confused. Maybe this is what making love is. Eve doesn’t know. She is still a virgin.
The next time she dreams of the dogs she is no longer one. She is seventeen and loses it to that boy in her Algebra II class. After they do it, Eve falls asleep in his arms due to obligation. She dreams of the dogs again. Jumping and slamming into each other. Eve is now in the dream yet also watching herself from above. Seeing how her skinny body moves towards the dogs.
Drawn to the familiarity of them. She finds them beautiful and becomes aroused with how they bite and bark at each other. They stop suddenly and look at Eve with their petrified eyes.
Why are you making us do this? they ask Eve as she stumbles away.
She didn’t know they could see her all along. She is so ashamed that all she can do is look at the Eve looking at her.
What is wrong with me? Eve asks Eve.
What is wrong with you? Eve responds to Eve.
Eve is dreaming of the dogs.
She is dreaming of the dogs in college before she drops out with no plan or desire to ever have one.
She is dreaming of the dogs when she falls asleep during sex, so uninterested that she doesn’t care if the man stops or not.
She is dreaming of the dogs when she naps outside in the summer and lets her body burn just so she can peel off the red skin later.
She is dreaming of the dogs after her mother calls her and tells her that Darrell died and no one was there to find his body for a week. That night, Eve touches herself until her hand cramps and her clitorus burns. She knows that if his dog was alive it would’ve barked and barked and Darrell could’ve been buried before his body was rotten. Men and their dogs. That was all he had.
Eve is dreaming of the dogs.
She dreams of the dogs through the melatonin. The prazosin. The vodka and the valium.
She is dreaming of the dogs until she begins to dream of us. At first she mistakes us for the dogs. Until she realizes that the paws are fingers and the muzzles are lips that look like hers. She is begging us to bark and yet we can only cry. She is trying to give us kibble but all we want is milk.
What are you? she asks us, terrified of the answer she already knows is true.
Perhaps it is easier if before we tell the story of Eve constantly exhausted, we tell the story of Eve helping her boyfriend, Howard, get ready for his faculty lecture at NYU. Howard doesn’t like when Eve calls him her boyfriend.
We are too old for that Eve. We are partners.
He is still a boyfriend in Eve’s mind and she is still a girlfriend in his mind despite what he says. Howard will not admit this though. A professor of Linguistics, Howard has spent his entire life molding his mouth and tongue with such direction that he never speaks the truth.
This lecture is going to mean something to these kids, he says to Eve as she helps him get dressed. She picks out his jacket. Tells him not to wear brown shoes with that belt.
Do I look handsome? he asks her standing in front of the mirror.
He wipes down the small creases of his button up while sucking in his stomach. Howard is balding a bit. Not enough that Eve is embarrassed by him, but just enough that people see him as a man who has worked hard in life and Eve as a woman who only goes out with hard working men.
You do, she says and kisses him on the cheek.
This is going to be good Eve. I mean it, he says and looks at her, are you excited?
I can’t wait, Eve says and smiles.
Eve walks into the lecture hall. One that can easily fit 100 people is sparsely populated by students and faculty. Eve sits in the back between empty chairs. She watches as Howard walks on stage and is met with a quiet applause. She can see the disappointment on his face yet knows that nobody else can. Howard does not do well with showing others that he is disappointed but there are subtle clues. His smile will never drop yet his eyes will go flat. It is the type of look that Eve has become too familiar with. A face that always seems to be looking back at her whenever she decides to speak while they are out to dinner with his colleagues or when she tells him that she doesn’t want to have sex. It is a face that never seems to leave her even when she shuts her mouth and opens her legs.
Howard is beginning his speech when Eve senses someone near her. She turns to see a young boy bending down to pick up a bag in the seat next to her.
I’m sorry, Eve says and looks at him, I didn’t know you were already here, I’ll move.
No, please don’t, he says, I will.
He moves closer to Eve to grab his backpack and hesitates a bit. Eve knows he finds her attractive. Her mother once told her that the only three things a woman needs to know in life is who wants to fuck her, who wants to kill her and who wants to do both. Howard wants to do both, but Eve knows that this boy only wants to fuck her and she can’t help but find that so nostalgic and pure.
They stare at each other, unsure if they should break the silent social rule of not sitting next to strangers when separate seats are available. The A.C is running despite it being February and Eve is cold. She does not want this boy to find another seat. She looks at him and nods. He sits down next to her and parts his legs more than needed. His knee slightly touches her crossed legs.
What year are you? he asks Eve.
Excuse me?
Are you a junior? Senior? I’ve never seen you before.
Eve smiles at this. She will be 29 next year which is practically 30 and 30 is practically 35 and 35 is — well that doesn’t matter too much. We know Eve won’t make it there.
I’m a senior, she says, you?
I’m only a freshman, he says and looks at her. Up close, Eve can appreciate how handsome he is. That type of handsome that only college boys seem to have and that ease in how they go about life. No fear of taxes, bills, or growing old. The only time that they are reminded of death is when a fellow student of theirs commits suicide and they read an email sent out by the school. They think to themselves, well that isn’t me — I would never kill myself and they really do believe that.
Why are you here? she asks the boy.
He’s my professor, he says and looks back to the podium at Howard, he heavily implied in class that we should go to this and well —
He’s an asshole, Eve says.
Yeah, asshole is a nice way to put it.
They both watch Howard together. He is talking but neither Eve or the boy are listening. The boy has moved himself as close to Eve as the chairs will allow. Eve slips her foot out of her heel and begins to trace it up and down the boy’s leg.
We should get out of here, Eve whispers to him.
I don’t want him to see me leave.
Come on, he is too caught up with himself.
The boy looks at Howard and then at Eve.
What would we do? he asks her.
She doesn’t respond and just smiles.
New York City in the winter never feels real. Everything is muted under the gray snow and yet as the boy lifts Eve up and pushes her against the wall of a nearby alleyway, Eve can feel everything.
You are so light, he says to Eve as she kisses him. Hands moving across each other’s bodies. Fingers tracing one another with no care to memorize.
Say that again.
You are so light?
Yes, say it again.
He keeps repeating the words between breaths and Eve tilts her head to kiss his neck just so she can hear him recite them more clearly.
The boy is facing the wall but Eve can see the people shuffling out of the lecture hall, passing by the alley but never looking in. She can feel the boy’s neck bruising under her lips. She sucks harder.
Easy, the boy says and pulls her face back to his.
She keeps her eyes open and as the boy kisses her. Eve watches all the unfamiliar winter coats walk by until there is the one that she helped Howard pick out.
He is standing there, watching them. His balding head covered in a fur hat. His hands within the sleeves of his jacket. Eve can see his glasses slipping down his nose but he does not move to slide them back up. His hands too afraid of the cold. His eyes unsure if they even want to see. Eve looks at him. Her fingers thawing into warmth as she runs them through the boy’s hair. Her lips becoming swollen and full of blood.
Let’s go back to my dorm, he says to Eve.
No, let’s stay right here, Eve says and stares at Howard.
Eve waits for Howard in the living room. She drinks a glass of red wine.
Did you enjoy the lecture? he asks as he sits next to her on the couch.
It was amazing, Eve says, you are a very intelligent man.
Eve places her wine glass on the coffee table. They both do not turn to face each other.
Did you understand it?
Yes, Eve says flatly, it was very profound. Such a fresh take.
Don’t mock me, Howard says and turns to Eve. She looks at him. His face is puffy and Eve wonders if he has been crying. She wonders. She doesn’t care.
You are nothing, do you hear me Eve, you are nothing, Howard says to her. He grabs Eve’s wrists and digs his fingernails into them as he pulls her to him, you have done nothing with your life. You didn’t graduate college, you can’t hold a job, the only skill you have is giving head. You are lucky to have me. I am a very important man and you aren’t even a woman. You are a whore. Never forget that and never forget how grateful you should be for me, because even when you get old and fat and ugly I will still have you. I will still have you Eve and it will not be because I love you, it will be because I pity you.
Eve pulls her hands out from Howard’s. She stares at her wrists — covered in red crescent moons. She wants to lick them clean just so she can watch them refill. Resisting the urge, she touches the side of Howard’s face softly instead, before kissing him. Eve can feel the confusion within his lips but as she crawls on top of him, he gives in. She bites his neck as she moves down. Twisting herself around him into a spiral.
Fuck, he says between breaths, you’re amazing.
After they are done, Eve stands up and begins to get dressed.
Where are you going? Howard asks her.
I’m gonna grab a pack of cigarettes, she says and kisses him on the cheek.
I thought you quit.
I did, Eve says, I’m just taking a break from quitting.
Okay. Come back soon.
Eve watches Howard snuggle his body into the sheets and close his eyes. She thinks about all the things she has at Howard’s house — a toothbrush, hairspray, her favorite mug, a book of poetry she will never read, and contacts that never seem to fit her eyes correctly. All these little things accumulating into a relationship, every forgotten item leading to permanence, leading to partners.
Eve walks outside. She pulls out a pack of reds from her purse and lights one. She lets the flame linger. Her lashes burn. Her eyes tear up and itch.
It all isn’t that important, Eve thinks to herself, I’ll buy a new toothbrush.
Perhaps it is easier if before we tell the story of the nurse saying to Eve that there is no record of her ever getting the HPV vaccination, we take a break.
Move away from the words and boil water for tea. Our ears are full of wax. So we stick Q-tips in, but we should’ve listened to Eve when she told us nothing smaller than a finger because now the wax has moved deeper and we cannot hear the kettle overflowing onto the kitchen floor.
We lie down and call out for Eve. We need help! Our head hurts! Our head hurts!
Eve comes and sits above us. She cups our head into her lap and tells us that this may feel weird before squirting hydrogen peroxide in our ear with a dropper.
Crackling. Fizzling. Bubbling. Crackling and crackling again.
Eve gently wipes the excess out with a cotton ball and lifts us up.
Now you can hear. Now you can hear.
But we cannot. We are only reading her lips. We try to tell her that but she is already
gone.
Eve is in the kitchen wiping the hot water from the floor with her bare hands. They are turning pink and then pinker until they eventually blister, pop, and bleed. This does not stop Eve. She stays on her knees, more comfortable on them than she has ever been on her feet. She is wiping and wiping the floor. The water is gone but she does not stop. Her burnt hands continue to crack open from the friction and as she wipes away blood she leaves a trail of it behind that she must clean again.
She is crying or we think she is. The hydrogen peroxide did not work. She could be screaming or laughing or singing — all look the same in silence.
We want to leave but we cannot. We are nothing but a reaction of Eve and she is nothing but an ouroboros without a gag reflex and this is too much — this is too much.
Let us go back to the doctor’s office or the museum or Howard. Anywhere but here — please. Please! Please, let us turn to a different page!
Perhaps it is easier if before we tell the story of Eve sitting by the phone waiting for the lab results to come back, unsure how it is fair that this tiny swab of her can determine who she is and what she is about to become, we tell the story of Eve waiting in line for the bathroom at a crowded club watching a woman pee through the slim crack of the stall.
She is hunched over resting her elbows on her knees while holding her head with her hands. Every part of her body rounded and weak. The only calcium in her bones coming from White Russians.
Despite the constant beating of house music lingering in Eve’s ears like tinnitus, she can hear the woman finish urinating and yet she doesn’t move. She remains seated on the toilet like a fetus and Eve wonders if this, whatever this is — is worth it. Other stalls open up but Eve stays stagnant, she waits for the woman as if they are childhood friends waiting for the other to walk to the school bus together. She finally hears the toilet flush, the lock of the stall clicks open and the woman walks out, pupils so dilated her eyes are black.
Eve begins to go into the stall but the woman stops her — touching her arm lightly. She pulls out a bracelet from her pocket and looks at Eve like a one night lover.
I’m sorry but can you help me put this on?
Yes, of course, Eve says, she holds the bracelet. It is covered in stupid multicolored charms — an ice cream cone, a sunflower, a kitty, and a key.
I don’t want a man, the woman says, I really don’t, but I get so lonely whenever I have to put on a bracelet.
Eve looks at the woman and holds her wrist for just a second more than needed before going into the stall and pissing.
Perhaps we should stop telling the story before the ending comes and we are left with no one, not even ourselves.
It is late stage cervical cancer, the doctor will tell Eve.
She will ask him if she will ever be able to have children before she asks him if she will survive. When he tells her realistically no to both, she will only be thinking of us and how she has already seen our faces, futures, and fears.
She will wonder how she has already seen our house. A little cottage just for her and us. We will have flowers in the front yard, cherry tomatoes growing in the back and a basil plant that we will never water. We will sniffle a lot and eat apples until we are fat like pigs. In the summer, Eve will make us sweet iced tea while we run around outside through the sprinkler with no bathing suits on. Why should we care? It will just be us and Eve in our little house and no one will bother us. No doctors. No men. No one at all. When the night comes Eve will tell us not to be afraid. She will light a bonfire with a single match. Pass around handwritten song lyrics that never rhyme and we will sing with our loud and terrible voices until the sun rises over our little cottage that is just for us and Eve.
