Back to Issue Fifty-Eight

RUNNING WATER

by HEATHER EMMANUEL

+

You are seven years old. With bruised knees and rough hands nicked from climbing. Skin streaked with mud, burnt from the midday sun.

Your mother’s nose wrinkles when you step inside. She doesn’t ask who you played with. She doesn’t ask whether you had fun. It’s in the scraped knees and dusted elbows you bear like a medal.

Go wash your hands. Her fingertips pinch her nose. And stop walking like that.

You hear her sigh as your socked feet pad towards the bathroom.

At the sink, you turn the tap on. Cold. Pump aloe vera soap on your hand and rub.

Your mother comes up behind you. Her knit sweater scrapes your back, your neck. The material makes you want to itch.

No, she says. Properly. Do it properly.

You blink. You are doing it properly. Water then soap then water and soap. Rub and rinse.

No, your mother tuts. She takes your wrists, holds them in place. The knit scratches the sticky skin of your forearm.

Then she turns the tap the other way.

Hot, you think. Too hot, you don’t say.

You watch the water run, heavy and insistent, striking the basin with a turbid temper. The water loses its transparency. The surrounding air fogs so much, you grab the rim of the sink to remain grounded.

This is how you get clean, she says. Barely audible beneath the running water. This is how girls stay clean.

You turn to meet her eyes and only find steamed glasses.

Then, she shoves your hands under scalding water.

The heat burns. Sharp and white and aching. You yelp. You try to pull away, but your mother has her hand wrapped around your wrists.

Mama, you squeal. Mama it’s too hot!

Your chest digs into the sink. Water splashes through your t-shirt, punctures your skin. She scrubs—hard, raw. Over your knuckles, between each finger, under your nails.

Your hands are starting to go red.

Hold still.

Stop. Your voice cracks. Stop Mama. It hurts.

Your hands throb with their own heartbeat. Bright and ringing, red and stinging, and—

There, your mother says. Normal.

She lets go. Momentarily. Then the towel rasps over your skin—impatient and unforgiving. Rough cotton over burned skin.

You don’t move until the towel drops to your feet, damp and crumpled against grass-stained socks.

You stay hunched over the sink long after she leaves. As her footsteps fade, you feel it. Breath hitches. Shoulders shake. Your cries are soundless.

+

How do you know they’re clean?

I don’t.

+

You are thirteen-years-old. Your school skirt rides wrong on your hips. Strands of hair escape your loose ponytail. You keep your shirt sleeves rolled up to your elbows, forearms exposed.

It’s lunch and the concrete is warm on your thighs. You and her sit on the second lowest step. Between the two of you: a pile of salt and vinegar crisps on a paper plate. Sharp and sweet. Residue sticks to your fingertips. You wait until she’s picked some before you reach for the plate. They brush. Once. She doesn’t flinch. Just tuts and says, We’re supposed to be sharing.

We are sharing, you say, words tumbling out of you.

She rolls her eyes.

On its way to your mouth, the corner of a crisp lands on your jumper, caught on the knit. She leans close, closer. Flicks it off and away from you with such ease.

You stiffen at the contact.

You’re so messy, she says. Fond and unaware. Crumbs of crisps stick to her glossed lips. You think of wiping them off with your thumb. You think of the gloss sticking to your skin if you did.

Further up on the steps, a group of older kids—boys, you know—laugh. Clamorous. They’re watching. They’ve been watching.

One of them snorts.

Oi, he ribs. Towards you. Gotta be careful there.

Your friend’s head snaps towards them. She doesn’t hesitate.

Mind your own, she snaps. Her face hardens, but her lips stay soft. Still dotted with crumbs. You still think about wiping them off.

Nah wait, a different boy drawls, insolent. Isn’t she a lesbian?

The word thuds against your skin. You know that word. You’ve heard it before. You don’t know how or when, only that it waits. For you or with you, you don’t decide.

You turn to look at her. Your friend. The one you share snacks and jokes with, who fixes your collar when it sticks up and reminds you to pack your water bottle before class ends. The one who once spent thirty minutes in the bathroom with you, scrubbing permanent marker from your palm because you both thought it was a whiteboard pen.

Next to you, her body tenses. Just for a second. No longer swaying. No longer leaning.

Then, she’s on her feet.

You’re all talking shit, your friend fumes. Like it’s obvious. Like the idea is so ridiculous.

Cold air wafts your face as she stands, dusting off her skirt. Come on, she says, they’re taking the piss.

She outstretches her hand.

You pause, clamped on concrete. Her hand hovers, small and open and steady. The sun isn’t bright, but midday streams around her. A halo of sincerity, gleaming, so rarely offered to you.

Isn’t she? The same boy says. Or a different boy. They all blend together; same voices, same sneers. A lesbian?

Lesbian.

The word strikes between your shoulder blades. The crisps in your stomach churn, acid curling in your throat.

You don’t move. Not yet. Neither does she. You’ve held onto each other before, she’s touched you before. It’s just a hand. It’s just her hand.

Your fingers twitch. When you reach out, it is slow. Deliberate. Your palm finds hers, and something inside you shifts. You let her pull you to your feet—aware of every bone, every joint, every line in your own hand as it presses against hers. The paper plate comes with you, some crisps colliding with concrete.

Her hand is still clasped around yours, dragging you away from boys who think a descriptor is the funniest thing in the world. Idiots, she mutters.

Yeah, you say. Too quickly, too numbly. Your fingers tighten around the paper plate. Your fingers tighten around her hand.

She stops abruptly, and your hands linger a fraction too long. You realise it at the same time she does. The holding. Her eyes flick down, then up. Yours do the same.

And then, her palm slips from yours.

Don’t want to give them ammo, she mutters. Readjusts her skirt that doesn’t need adjusting. Her gaze finds yours, again. Her head tilts back to meet you.

You okay?

Yeah, you insist, too soon. Yeah, I just—don’t know why they said that. Your laugh is caught in your throat, high and brittle and not yours.

They’re boys being stupid, she says. Don’t worry about it. Then stops. It’s all lies anyway, right?

You blink.

What?

Well, you’re not, are you? Her head tilts ever so slightly. Curiosity? A lesbian.

You blink. Cough to clear it out, to buy time you didn’t save for. The word weighs down your tongue, the syllables clank between your teeth.

No, you feel your head shake before the word comes out. You don’t meet her eyes. No. Of course not.

She exhales, relief loosening her shoulders in a way that makes your chest ache. Right. Okay. Her answering laugh is slight. See? She nudges her arm with her elbow. Companionable. Familiar. Boys are idiots. They don’t know a thing.

Yeah. Idiots.

She hums, swiping a crisp from the pile. You have that last bit, she says. I had way more than you.

Nah, you manage. I’m full.

Her look doesn’t leave you. It settles, searching. You let her search.

You’d tell me, right?

Lesbian.

Tell you what?

She shrugs, but it’s lopsided. You know what I mean. You’d tell me if you were.

You roll the plate in on itself, crisps crushing between the weight of greased hands.

Yeah. Yeah, of course I would.

She accepts this with a small hum.

Good. A beat. Because I’d tell you.

She speaks the way she tends to: with conviction she shouldn’t yet have to carry.

You would? The words sting your throat with the last of the crisp crumbs.

Yeah. Of course I would.

But there’s nothing to tell, you think.

But I’d never tell you, you think.

+

Have you heard this one?

Let the song play first.

This album has been my background music with all this exam prep.

Hm. I can’t really study to music.

Good thing we’re not studying, then. Listen to the chorus of this one.

I will if you play the fucking song.

Okay, okay. Relax.

I am relaxed.

You’re not. You’re sitting like you’re about to give a witness statement.

How’s this?

Better. Wow, you’re really tall.

I’m aware.

Taller than my—

Boyfriend?

…Yeah.

You have big feet, too. What’s your shoe size?

Eight and a half.

Fucking hell. I’m still a three.

Didn’t know adult shoes come in a three.

Oh my God, stop!

…The drums on this are nice.

I never noticed. So, do you always. You know. Wear boys’ clothes.

I like how they fit.

Oh. Well, they do. Fit. You.

Thank you.

You don’t need to look so serious.

That’s just my face.

You look like you’re about to bolt.

I won’t.

Promise?

I said I won’t.

…Did I say something wrong?

No, no. You didn’t.

Then why are your shoulders back up?

Oh. Sorry.

Don’t apologise.

I’m not apologising.

You just said sorry.

Sorry, habit. Shit, sorry.

You’re funny.

And you’re…

I’m…?

Soft.

Soft?

Yeah.

You can’t know that.

I can.

How?

I just can.

You can’t know without touching me.

…Oh.

Yeah. Oh.

I didn’t mean—

Didn’t you?

I’m not usually…

Do you want to?

What?

Touch me.

I shouldn’t.

Why not?

Because you’re—

Don’t say soft.

But you are.

And?

And you have a boyfriend.

He’s not here.

I know.

So what’s the problem?

I’m not a boy.

I know that.

Do you?

You’re like…

Don’t.

You don’t know what I was going to say.

Something weird.

I wasn’t! I won’t say anything weird unless you make it weird.

It’s already weird.

Is it?

God, yeah.

We can make it weirder.

…Weirder?

Only if you want to.

Do you want me to?

What do you think?

Don’t make me guess.

You don’t have to guess. I told you.

Told me what?

To touch me.

+

You are twenty years old.

Your hands are worse in winter.

The towel is rough on your skin. Stiffened from the air dryer and age. You prefer it that way; proof you’ve dried them properly. Proof you’ve done it right.

The clock on the oven blinks 06:13. You prefer this, too.

You’re up early, she says. From behind you, accusation peppers her tone. You’ve already shut off the tap. Droplets scatter across the steel basin.

Couldn’t sleep, you say. Not entirely false. Sorry—do you need the sink?

When she shakes her head, the braids tucked behind her ears loosen. One falls to the side of her face.

I don’t, she says, voice low. She folds her arms across her chest. The oversized t-shirt she’s wearing rides up on her thigh. You don’t look. You do not look. You focus on the tilt of her head. I heard the tap. And the boiler.

Your hands pause mid-air, mid-dry.

Oh—sorry.

Stop apologising, she yawns. Might as well make tea while you’re up.

She says nothing else about your hands. Nothing else about the tap or the water or the sink or the water bill you cover every month in exchange for your relentless ritualism.

You press your hands together inside the towel until the sting steadies you. You set it down when she places the half-empty kettle in its base.

You’re bleeding again, she notes. She nods towards your hands, ignores the kettle as it comes to a boil. Your knuckles.

Her voice unfolds like warmth from the kettle coil. You don’t look down at your hands; only at her gaze that follows them.

It’s winter, you try. They dry out.

Not because you keep washing them?

There it is.

You’ve lived here for six months now. Long enough to know her socked footsteps, how she leaves her spoon in her tea, how she prefers to sleep with the television muted.

Not long enough to know if she is truly comfortable with you. Around you.

You’re not sure any of them are.

Five girls in a three story house. You include yourself only by technicality. The others exist in between routines and recognition. They swap anecdotes about birth control and boys and body lotion from brands you’ve never heard of.

It’s not that they’ve ever excluded you. This was a possibility you understood when living with an established group of friends. An inevitability you accepted when you overtook the tenancy of one of these friends who relocated for a man with a six-figure salary.

You washed away the doubts the way you washed away everything else.

She turns to take out the starry night mug she uses each morning. Her fingertips linger on the tall, teal mug she bought you after your old one slipped and smashed from the drying rack.

Just hot water, you say. She doesn’t comment on the hoarseness of your voice.

Have you tried the hand cream? She pours.

Your fingers brush when she pushes the teal mug towards you.

Yeah, you lie. Smells nice.

I love anything berry flavoured, she adds, smiling. Or scented.

You open the tap, adding cold water to the mug and giving it a swirl. You close the tap. You sip.

When’s your next appointment?

She asks this with nonchalance that does not belong to the situation. The word appointment used to be spoken with hesitance. Then with apology, as if seeking remorse for putting into motion the referral that forced you to confront what you refused to name. Now, it rolls off the tongue like a casual chore.

I don’t have one, you say.

Her eyes flick to you. Then to your hands. Then back to your face. You can see the arithmetic in it, the calculation, the subtraction behind her data analyst eyes.

You cancelled, she whispers. Confirmation without anger.

She doesn’t fill the silence for you. She makes her tea, she puts bread in the toaster and takes butter out of the fridge. The kitchen holds its breath. The house doesn’t yet startle awake.

We talked about this, she says.

You don’t trust your words. You can’t.

Because you both know she means more than appointments. Because you both know she’s only ever had boyfriends.

You know what I said. That I won’t—we can’t—

I know, you stop her. You have to. I know, and it’s not fair to you—

It’s not about me. Her tone is feather-light, but shakes nonetheless. It’s not about me. I just—it’s for you. For you to stop punishing yourself for—

Wanting.

She smiles. A little lopsided, a little rueful.

Yeah. That.

You set down your mug. You press your hands flat on the counter to stop them from twitching. Against the laminate, your knuckles scream—skin split and aching.

I’ll reschedule, you say. Your voice barely scrapes free. I’ll see what they have this week.

She watches you for a beat. In her oversized t-shirt and odd socks, shorter and smaller but—brave. Braver than you’ve ever been.

Her eyes flick towards your lips and you know what she’s offering without her saying it.

You don’t take it. You cannot take it.

I’ll call them, you say. I promise I’ll call them.

She nods like she believes you.

You nod like you mean it, too.

+

Hello?

Oh. You finally answered.

I’ve been on nights.

You’re always on nights.

That’s my job.

It’s always your job. No matter if you get a heart attack from doing all these nights.

Mum.

I called you yesterday.

I know. I called you back and you didn’t pick up.

Don’t start with that.

I left you a voicemail.

You know I can’t check those.

I showed you how.

Hm. Are you eating properly?

Yes, Mum.

And doing your laundry the way I taught you. Separate the colours and low heat for delicates. And don’t tell me you’re still leaving wet clothes in the machine overnight—

I know how to do laundry, Mama.

Hm. You always liked being difficult.

Mama—

Do you still look like that?

I’ve looked like this for a long time, Mama.

I know. Believe me, I know. Pushing thirty and still dressing up like—

I’m not pushing thirty.

There’s still time, you know.

How are the cats? Are they getting along now?

Ask them. They’re still circling each other, but not as much as they used to. They can exist in the same room, now.

That’s good.

Mhm. You should tell me.

Tell you what?

Are you still playing pretend with that girl?

…It’s not pretend.

It is. Pretending to be a girl’s boyfriend.

This is why I moved.

So you could keep making girls silly over you? Making them feel things they don’t understand?

Okay.

Still walking like that.

Okay.

Is she in love with you?

I don’t know.

You don’t know.

No. I don’t.

Pretending. At your age.

Goodbye, Mama.

An adult.

Bye.

+

You are thirty-one years old.

You are still learning your limbs.

The hospital chair is too low. Too narrow. Your knees jut outwards. The armrests dig into your thighs. Feet planted wide. Palms down. Hands washed for twenty seconds. As the sign said.

She is smaller than you remember. Your mother. The bed swallows her. Sheets bury her. Her mane of hair has thinned. For the first time in years, her veins are more visible than yours.

Oh, she says. There you are. Her voice. That voice. Rasped by time. Only said now upon waking, unaware you’ve been glued to the vinyl chair since breakfast.

You don’t smile. You’re not quite there yet. But you do say, Hi Mama. Dial your voice down by a decibel. She looks startled, anyway. She looks like she needs her glasses. Where are her glasses?

You cut your hair again, she says. She says again as if you haven’t been getting short back and sides for the better part of a decade.

Yes.

Her gaze drops. To your jaw, your shoulders. Your folded hands.

You’ve gotten fat.

Mum.

And you’re slouching. You come to my house and you’re slouching.

The chair groans as you readjust. Your knees stay open. Your hands stay splayed.

You still sit like that.

Like what.

Like you want—

A knock at the door. A nurse. Younger. Or just young. Hair pulled back in a neat ponytail that swishes when she moves. You smell vanilla and caramel and macadamia. You feel your mouth go dry.

Hello Ms, she greets. How are you feeling?

Like I’ve just been run over, your mother mumbles.

The nurse’s laugh is melodic. Well let me check your numbers, she says, and we’ll see what we can do.

Your mother huffs. Her arm shakes when she extends it for her blood pressure reading. The nurse busies herself, only sparing you a glance as the machine loads.

You must be—

Daughter, the word sounds foreign from your mother’s mouth. Not said with any discernable pride or any certainty. Simply spoken.

The nurse takes you in fully. Smiles again. The awareness of it slams into your sternum.

Hi there, she says. She’s actually been great today. We sent off a blood sample earlier, so just awaiting those results. The doctor hasn’t been around yet, but after the next medication review—

Such a pretty girl, your mother interrupts her. She pats the nurse’s wrist.

The nurse laughs. Softly.

Thank you, ma’am.

See? Your mother faces you when she says it. So polite.

The machine beeps. The nurse’s frown is slight. Let’s just try that again, she says. She opens and closes the cuff around your mother’s frail arm, straightens it out.

Do you think you could. She starts, stares at you. Then gestures towards the mound of wiring. Just hold this whilst I—

You blink. Oh, yeah. Of course, should I—?

Yes, please. It always gets a bit tangled.

All right. Sure. Your pause is brief. The chair scrapes when you stand. You’re aware of the width of your shoulders when you lean, the size of your hands when they reach.

She pauses—the nurse. Briefly. Then continues.

You catch your thumb and forefinger. They’re careful, the way you’ve taught them to be. You keep the wires in place.

The machine beeps in finality. Satisfied, the nurse hums and scrawls them down in a pink notepad.

Thank you, she says, eyes folding into crescents. I always need another pair of hands.

No problem. Your voice is too low, too deep. You clear your throat too late.

Your mother makes a sound.

You always did like the pretty girls, she remarks. Then continues. Always the pretty ones. The ones who didn’t know any better.

The nurse’s pen pauses mid-air. She doesn’t look up right away. Her pen returns to the page. When she goes to remove the cuff, you retreat. The wires drop to your mother’s side. Tangled, still. Heavier.

You step back, sit down with too much force, the arm rest bumps the base of your hip.

And you know—

Mum. You stop her, you have to stop her. Her head turns to face you, affronted but silent.

With measured distance, the nurse speaks. I’ll go and document these, and follow up on those bloods. But you can—

She stops.

Just press the call light if you need anything.

Yes, yes, your mother’s handwave barely leaves the bed. My daughter knows what to do. She always knows what to do.

Well, that’s what family’s for. The nurse’s smile does not reach her eyes. She studies your mother. Then you. Her notes are face down on her chest. She nods even though nobody has spoken. When she turns to leave, her ponytail swishes.

You watch it go.

The door clicks shut.

See that. You flinch at your mother’s voice.

See what.

She was scared to death, says your mother. You always do that.

Mum, you try. You look down at your hands. You think of the life they’ve built. You think of the leases they’ve signed, the meals they’ve made. The women they’ve touched. Women who’ve touched them back.

She doesn’t scrutinise you when you stand up to leave. You’ve heard it all before, anyway. Dirty. Too dirty. Dirty. Scrub it out.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You tell yourself it’s all right.

It has to be all right.

+

You’ve been in there a while.

You don’t have to stand outside the door.

You said it was fine.

It is.

…It’s gotten bad again.

No.

Hasn’t it?

It hasn’t. Really, it hasn’t.

Don’t lie. You’ve been washing them after. Every single time.

I’m not—

You are. Like you have to undo touching me. Like you have to erase wanting me.

That’s not it.

Then what is it?

I just— the feeling. I don’t like the feeling.

…Right.

Shit. No, no, that’s not what I meant. It’s just—

It is what you meant.

It isn’t.

Open the door.

I’m nearly done.

Are you?

Yes. I promise.

You keep promising.

I’ll call them again.

Will you?

I will.

You’ve said that before.

You don’t think I will.

I think you’re in denial. I think you’re scared.

…Are you scared?

…I don’t—I don’t know how to love you without trying to save you.

You don’t have to save me.

I know.

You don’t have to love me, either.

Don’t do that.

Do what?

Don’t push me away. Don’t try to get me to leave so you can keep hurting yourself.

It’s better for you.

You don’t get to decide that.

I’m not easy to love.

You’re not. But that doesn’t stop me.

It should.

Well, it doesn’t.

I wish it did.

You don’t mean that.

I do. I really do.

Stop it.

You shouldn’t have to deal with this.

Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean—

Please just. Let me deal with this.

Close the tap.

I can’t. I’m sorry—I can’t.

+

You are forty years old.

The suit is black. Tailored. Pressed so sharp, the creases could cut. In front of the mirror, you smooth your palms down in front of the jacket.

Your hands are softer than they’ve been. Soft if you don’t lean in too closely.

Healed skin blooms along your knuckles, lines visible but not raw. You readjust cuffs that have already been checked. You straighten your collar, feel your pulse beneath the fabric.

You woke earlier than you needed to. Even now, you regard the sunrise through half-open blinds as you reread the scrawled notes of your speech.

You tuck it into the breast pocket, pat it against the flatness of your chest.

It fits. That’s the first thing you noticed when the jacket slid over your shoulders. Shirt crisp, trousers pin-straight. Leather shoes are shined to hold your reflection. A reflection you’ve learned to tolerate.

With fondness, the thought lands: she would hate this.

You know she would. You look like a man or stop standing like that, she’d bark. Your hair is short, she’d attempt to argue like you could grow it out within the span of an hour.

She would hate it.

You wear it, anyway.

At the funeral, the soil is damp. The air smells like iron and turned earth. Your hands stay folded in front of you when they lower her. Fingers laced tight enough to ache. You washed them, once, before you left the house. Moisturised with citrus-scented hand cream that doesn’t sting.

Your voice doesn’t tremble during the speech. It stays: measured and manageable. You nod at condolences like you’re checking boxes.

Afterwards, you drive yourself back to your terraced house in silence and don’t cry until your shoulders collapse at the bathroom sink.

Missing her feels like betrayal and relief.

Missing her makes no sense.

You grieve. Not the woman carved shame into your bones. But for the women that followed. The woman who stayed when she shouldn’t have. The women who sat on closed toilet lids at midnight, the women who kissed your wrists and apologised for what was never their fault. The women who learned your rituals and the women who stayed long enough to watch them evolve.

Somewhere between grief and grocery lists, you learn that relief can be chemical and still be yours. You accept the hand on the small of your back that comes packaged in blister packs of twenty-eight. You are unsure whether this is something to be proud of.

Yet, it returns. It always does.

Sunlight falls across your bare shoulders. You don’t move away from it. Instead, you consider it: the glow. The silence. Warmth without the scald. Relief without ritual.

The thought tastes like stillness.

It tastes like nothing at all.

+

Do you remember what we talked about last week?

The plastic dog.

Yes. You said the dog didn’t like being pushed down all the time.

Yes.

The dog didn’t look different, it still felt different on the inside.

Right.

Right. Sometimes we can look different outside to how we feel outside. Do you ever feel like that?

…Sometimes.

Can you tell me about a time you’ve felt like that?

When the boys say I can’t play with them.

How do you feel?

Left out.

I remember you said last week that you like playing with the boys outside. But sometimes they don’t let you?

It depends whose game it is.

And you feel left out when that happens.

Yeah. They tell me to sit with the girls. But then girls want me to be the dad when they play house.

And how does that make you feel?

I like when I get to hold their hand. But only in the game. Not in real life.

Why not in real life?

Because it’s pretend.

Do you like pretend?

…Sometimes.

Sometimes. Okay. I see your hands look a bit red. And your teacher says you ask to wash your hands a few times in class. Do you want to tell me about that?

They just feel dirty.

Dirty from playing, or something else?

Like if I’ve been climbing with the boys, they’re dirty. If I’ve been holding hands with the girls, they’re dirty. They’re always dirty. That’s why they need washing.

When they need washing, is it because there’s dirt on them? Or are you trying to get something off?

There is dirt on them so I have to get it off.

…I see. Is this dirt you can see?

Sometimes it’s real dirt, like from the mud or from pen. But sometimes it’s pretend dirt.

Pretend dirt?

Like the dirt is there but I can only feel it.

So your hands feel dirty even if they don’t look dirty?

Yes.

And you wash them in real life even if the dirt is pretend.

…Is that bad?

No, it’s not bad. We just don’t want you to hurt your hands or miss too much school.

We?

Grown-ups who care about you. Your mother is very worried about you washing your hands all the time.

It’s not all time. Just when they’re dirty.

Do you remember when your hands first felt dirty?

No.

Do you know how long you’ve had this dirty feeling?

Not really.

That’s okay. Thank you for talking about it with me.

Will you tell my mama?

No. I’d only tell her something if I thought you’d be in danger. Or anyone else.

…But you don’t think I’m in danger?

No. I don’t think you’re in danger.

…Okay.

…Do you think you’re in danger?

No. If I’m clean, then I’m not in any danger. the

Well, that’s what we’re here to talk about. Let’s try another exercise, okay?

Okay.

author pic here

Heather Emmanuel is a Black British writer of contemporary lesbian literary fiction and prose poetry. Her work is forthcoming in The Offing, SWWIM, Maudlin House, and Gone Lawn. You can find her at heather-emmanuel.com or at @heather.emmanuel8

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