by M. Pokrass
The Plastic Doll
When we talked on the phone, he told me what he pictured. I didn’t say anything to him, just listened to the way he described my hair, my chin, my legs. The words about these parts of me sounded pretty, like bubbles catching the light. I could laugh and float with them, let him believe anything, everything he wanted to. After all, what did it matter?
We would never meet. The love I took from our conversations was limited to virtual reality love. When he said he loved me, my body felt light and my mind stopped spinning. I would often hold onto my knees, pull them toward my chest on the floor. Indian style, a child again, feeling my bones on the floor, knowing the floor was just one floor and there were so many others that could hold me just as well.
I grew addicted the way he talked to me, and about what he wanted to do to me, but I didn’t know what to say about my bubble lips, my cartoon legs, because my lips and legs didn’t agree with his story. My legs were fine and they held me up and got me places. My lips allowed me to hum, to kiss.
He had never shown me himself, and that felt strange at first, then I got used to it. I imagined his shape, his shadow, and the temperature between us, the warm and inviting feeling, like a heated pool.
