Hasselblad:Triptych Ananda Lima (bio) I There was Michele, and there was the girl. Michele held the door open. The girl carried an oversized backpack and wore frameless sunglasses with golden mirrored lenses. Michele could see a version of herself reflected on them, distorted, bathed in gold. A few strands of the girl's light brown hair swayed with the breeze and shaped themselves as a moving frame around her face. The girl twisted her backpack off, leaning back and bending her knees slightly, which made visible the slender tone of her thighs. Her movements seemed part of a practice that had to be learned, like martial arts. Like dancing. Michele's body sensed a vague recollection of that motion but felt more presently the smooth round brass door handle in her palm. In that bright outside light, the skin on the back of her hand looked dry and papery. Four sunspots formed a loose trail around her knuckles. Michele let her fingers slide off the doorknob. Her arms hung down limply as the girl embraced her. ________ Michele and the girl were at the kitchen table having tea. The girl held a caramel filled cookie with the tips of her long thin fingers. She frowned a little then smiled, brushing some crumbs from the corner of her mouth, incapable of making an ungainly gesture. Michele almost picked up a cookie, but stopped herself and sipped her tea. The girl talked about how Paris was for tourists and how she should have gone to Berlin instead. Then about a man, a lover, though she didn't call him that, with whom she had parted a few months ago. She had left him in Paris. Something in him had attracted her, she said, she didn't know what, maybe his crooked nose, or his broody mood, or the way he always looked irritated at her but could not resist her. But in the end, those things ceased to be amusing, she said. She'd been bored of his monologues and diatribes on the emptiness of the art they went to see in the museums, his saying "derivative" with those cutting British ts. And how possessive he was. So she decided to leave him one morning, just like that. "I hadn't closed the curtains after all the fighting the night before, and the sun woke me up," the girl said. "I looked at him while he slept." The girl looked out the window, and Michele followed her gaze as if they were both watching the boy resting his head on his pillow. "He was cute, but I was so sick of him. So much work." She sipped her tea, shaking her head slightly. "I had enough." She put her cookie down now and proceeded to talk about how she had disentangled herself from under his arm, afraid he would wake up, but his arm just flopped and settled comfortably on the mattress. "I thought he might be dead. I poked him, then put my finger under his nose and felt his breathing. God, I was relieved!" The pitch of her voice was higher now. She took another bite of her cookie and laughed. Michele laughed a little too, not knowing why, catching it from the girl like a yawn. She looked [End Page 187] so young right then. Her appearance alternated between a child and an adult, depending on the angle and expression. "I looked around the room, thought about my things in the closets… and felt lazy." She smiled. "He moved his arm again and I freaked. I was so happy he didn't wake up. I thought, this is it, here is my chance. I found my shorts, but couldn't find my shirt. So I grabbed his, and my camera bag, my wallet, my sunglasses and I was out. I went down that spiral staircase so fast. I felt dizzy." The girl giggled. "Downstairs, it was sunny and warm. I walked along the river for hours. I felt light. I felt, you know, free." Michele could trace the shape of the girl's feelings inside her, an outline somewhere in her chest, a path carved by a stream...
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