The wood of the desk penetrates the tip of the finger. The warmth of salt slides under the arms. The steel round frame of a face looks up. The lesson is still held.
This wretched heat, polluted, with menacing traces of doubt, fills the space of walls. The constant cries of the door reminding me of a grim passion, too, despairingly hopeful of sleep. Still, more objects enter, gleeful, of a truth to be revealed.
The classroom is cold. Elliot dances. He knows what this is doing to me. We begin almost immediately.
My desperate fingers join together in a vain attempt to immerse this little foreigner, Elliot, in direct play. After all a boy’s words taste good. The top of petals, inside, cannot be grasped. The figures and objects begin to take notice and despite this the classroom grows dim. Shredded petals and burgundy syrup stick to the desk and arm like tar. The body struggles. I hum to the sound of Elliot’s belt buckle.
The mouth opens slightly, my finger moves downward, rubbing gently the fuzz and bumps of a soft road to the heart. He is shyly immersed in this. The taste of playful reluctance is unsurpassable and I remember how bittersweet self control can be.
I try to think of a family that will always be stupid of their incestuously contemptuous efforts to make this world a better place; their fierce inbred innocence spreading the infectious disease of imperial commonality. And I know that those creatures of beauty, like this here Elliot, need the tastes, the silhouettes made statue, and oral services of the dead. Elliot needs more than a touch. A will would be nice. Something to move the groin.
Elliot stands to his feet, still, with plight. Some few petals glide about, suspended. The elevation draws breath, hits the stomach and moves the blood. He moans. The dry eyes shut for a moment.
There is a terrible humidity in the air. My discomfort grows now that I feel complete. Elliot is pushed away. I stand. Back on my feet I seem farther away from the door that will never cry again. The class is over. I look about the room. The objects are relentlessly afraid now.
But no one cries. Not even Elliot. Not even I.
The back hunches over. The face brace squeaks. The aroma of rose and salt already make this nostalgic. The petals fall to the floor. I am guilty yet again. A loud silence rips the walls open, the gleeful, confused with a shameful satisfaction. The hands cover a profile, the body must be detached from the face. But the lesson is still well taught: Elliot is guilty too