At home, Suzie drops her body onto the black leather couch to take off her shoes. Cute sandals, her favorite pair, and she looks at her feet, she touches them, they are rough. Callus everywhere, from all the walking, Suzie supposes, Callus, like her name, as if it was imprinted in her DNA, as if roughening up had been the logical conclusion.
Suzie tries to cut off the leathery callus with her teeth, but she can't bite it off, the imprints of her teeth only leave small cavities on the thick, yellowish skin.
Suzie can feel a hand gently touching her hip and pulling her close. A smell, Comme des Garçons, Oh, dear god, not again, but Garçon grabs her foot and says with a smile: Suzie, Sweetie, why are you doing this all the time, stop touching yourself, stop eating yourself, it's nasty, Sweetie.
Can you fuck off? Suzie turns around and looks him in the eye, now she does, now she can,
and suddenly, she understands that he really doesn't get it, that he never will, all this touching herself,
all this picking herself, it is nasty, it is so, so nasty, but it is gentle, it is fair, it is exactly how she wants it. Suzie's body is fragile, it could disappear any second,
she could disappear any second,
and how will she know that she hasn't disappeared yet if not by feeling herself,
and how will Garçon ever understand what that means,
and now Suzie looks him dead in the eye again and says
Sweetie, can you fuck off?
And he turns around and he fucks off, leaves, even leaves the door open, and Suzie knows that he is going to disappear forever, and she knows that she really fucked up, because eventually, his hands were simply too fragile to endure the roughness of her feet, maybe his beautiful, beautiful hands had never been real after all.
And Suzie sinks deeper into her black leather couch as she gnaws on her dinner, mmh, lemon-baiser, and she's feeling alone, and she's feeling safe, she's feeling so much and she's feeling so, so good.