Waif

by Samantha Kolesnik

What the man didn’t understand, though, was that I could persist for a long time without reciprocation.

There’s an interesting thing about life—you can justify anything to yourself if the desire is great enough.

That was the crux of my oppressive experience with men in the flesh—the ones you wished would touch you never did, and the ones you never wanted to touch you did so without asking.

BEN LANDRY. Angie Landry. Mr. Ben and Mrs. Angie Landry. The Landrys. I formed the words in a whisper so quiet, I was sure only I could hear it.

The important thing was that I had found his name. With his name and address, it would be hard to lose him.

The fact I had acted so out of character seemed to be further proof my encounter with Ben Landry was part of God’s design.

They let their rages go so far before teetering over the edge of a cliff, looking at the consequences, and deciding to step back.

The dead only existed in the minds of the living, and what parts of my mother my mind remembered were all the parts of her left.

IF NECESSARY TO ADMIT ANYTHING, I had to admit it surprised me how easy it was to follow someone.

That was okay by me, though. I was willing to take my time. I was willing to be gentle.

But it’s interesting how a physician will prescribe a pill for the psyche, change the brain on the inside, but won’t risk changing the flesh on the outside. Who decided our flesh had to be immutable?

The world of men required certain sacrifices of me and I had simply tired of making them. It was high time for men to sacrifice for me. To give generously for my affection—to give of their bodies, not just of their wallets. Paying for dinner was easy. Paying with your flesh, as women had been expected to do since the dawn of time? That was hard.

had been conditioned to believe people would care about me if only I could conform better, if only I could please better, if only I could submit better.

What made a man? Hatred for women, perhaps. If not hatred . . . then apathy. Utilitarianism.

I’d always liked many parts of my body but never the whole.

I never got to mourn Brittany in the way I got to mourn other people I’d lost from my life. She was a secret confined to my memories, tied forever to the scent of clove smoke and autumn.

There was some sad part of me, lodged deep in my gut, that felt I had to be with a man. I couldn’t articulate why, and it wasn’t borne of logic or arousal, but of fear. There seemed to be some unknown force goading me toward men with neon letters hanging overhead, “OR ELSE.”

THE SIMULTANEOUSLY UNSETTLING AND beautiful thing about losing touch with someone is they could have died the day after you last spoke to them and you wouldn’t know. For an indeterminate amount of time, they are both dead and alive, and you get to choose which they are without much personal emotional consequence.

Social media made it so tempting, in times of emotional vulnerability, to look up the people who were both dead and alive at once.

I know it’s not rational. Does grief have to be?

I wondered at how any deity could create something so stunning and plop it here where all men would do was try to ruin it.

I had walked the world of men alone, but unlike my mother, I wouldn’t stay in that world.

I had stopped at bed after bed, seeking some kind of love, receiving only pain, and had finally landed in a speeding station wagon, the head of a beautiful creature resting on my tired thighs.