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seven/nine lives

Here's a toast to the living on the blonde side. Documenting the mild narcissism and nighttime wisdom of a little wise guy living on nine lives. Selected essays and fiction. 

Timea is a fiction writer, essayist, and social researcher. She is a doctoral candidate at the University of Oxford.

Dent, Vent, Repent

Dent, Vent, Repent

This is the cycle. Watch it loop in its infinite cruelty: dent, vent, repent. Let it be known that love will always begin and end like this: dent, vent, repent.

Dent

Dent: fist and knuckle marks on your teenage bedroom wall. The first drop of blood in your pubescent panties. Something will change your life, if only for a hot minute. First we bring gifts to the party — sometimes we bring goodness, sometimes we bring harm. Baby girl, I know you'll believe in a thing called lust. Your mother won't stop you when you go. You'll show up at his apartment with a holdall and a heart heavy with dreams, push his folded bedding to one side, fill his wardrobes with your jackets and shoes, place your toothbrush on his sink, pick a side of the bed, rest your head on his chest, and tell him, "honey, I'm home." And for the first ten days he'll reply, "baby, I'm glad." With your hands on his shoulders, you'll let him speak: "I love you," he'll say. "You're my woman," he'll say. "You're the future," he'll say. And of course you'll believe him. I believed him too. Hush. Wrap your legs 'round his hips and enjoy him while he lasts.

Vent

Vent: here's your postcard from Cloud Nine. Tell your friends you know he'll hurt you. How many words does the average man speak in a day? Does he speak fewer words than a woman? (Three times fewer.) A quiet follows him around. No, shit, wait... It's a silence. Thick, heavy, bleak; thick, heavy, bleak. (Three times fewer.) On Monday night he'll come home and fill the room with it. He smells of beer, smokes, and expired sadness. You've lit candles and put Prosecco in the freezer. There's only so many rounds of Mortal Kombat you can play before you're ready to fight real humans. But wait, wait, you've changed. You used to be impatient: you blinked too hard and twitched your ankles as a rule, but for him you're a saint. (Serene or sterile? You decide.) When he comes home, he'll sit on the sofa and politely kiss your cheek, but what he really wants to do is tell you that he's still in love with her. But, for now, he'll say nothing at all. (Three times less.)

Repent

Repent: on your knees at his feet, tell him the truth. Your chest has ached with the difficulty of discipline, of caging your iron tongue and nodding instead. So let my tears be my letter of resignation. I have stopped believing that loving you any longer or any harder will help you become the man that I need you to be. Yes, that truth will climb out from your ass and into your head. Eventually. Boys will be boys. Men will be men. And so they taught you to be a certain kind of woman: the healer. You're white magic, uh: soft palms that calm palpations, fingertips that melt temples, kisses like the season's first ripe fig (sweet, pink-lipped blossom). Out you go into the world with your book of spells, lettered into the curve of your hips. Can you cure the cause? Don't. You cannot heal a cobra of its venom. You must understand that the cobra needs it to survive. Leave. 

The Ultimate Revenge is Art

The Ultimate Revenge is Art

Dealing with Post-Partying Blues

Dealing with Post-Partying Blues