some  voices  stay  with  you.  they  stick  in  the  nerves,  in  the  teeth,  in  whatever  dark little drawer  the  body  keeps  its old irritations alive. ece’s voice had been lodged there for years, shrill as chalk dragged  over  slate,  thin as  rusted  hinges  crying  out in  the  heat.  even  before  he  looks,  matteo  knows  who  it  is. it’s a lifetime of knowing, that’s all. back then, when  they  were  children,  it  looked  a  lot  like  mutual  attempted  murder  by  playground  rules:  ece  with  her  chin  tipped  up  like  she  owned  the  monkey  bars,  the  swing  set,  the  sky  above  it,  matteo  hating her for it  on  principle. she’d  declare  something  hers  just  because  she  wanted  it;  he’d  answer  by  pulling  her  ponytail,  knocking  his  bike  into  hers,  pitching  rocks  at  her  tires  hard  enough  to  make  her  shriek.  she’d  claw  at  him,  he’d  grin  blood-bright,  and  somehow  that  was  just  the  language  they  spoke  back  then. then  they  got  older,  and  the  fighting lost some of its noise. the insults got more personal. pride got baited, nerves got pressed.  by  the  time  they  were  old  enough  to  trade  playground  grudges  for  weapons,  matteo  had  mostly  learned  how  to  leave  the old childhood methods behind. mostly. he still knew how to take it far enough to earn a slap. matteo  glances  up  from  under  the  hood,  rag  hanging  from  one  hand,  and the  grin  that  catches hold of him  is  a rare sight these  days. a laugh follows—louder than it needs to be—not  because  he’s  glad  to  see  her.  god,  no.  but  because  of  course  it’s  her. “well,”  he  says,  and  the  rag  in  his  hand  lands  against  the  workbench  with  a  damp  little  smack,  “ain’t  that  a  sight.” there’s  something  downright  exhilarating  in  finding  out  that  ece  candemir—ece who was too good for magnolia creek and everything in it —still  got  yanked  back  all  the  same.  whatever  version  of  herself  she’d  built  somewhere  else,  lacquered  neat  in  silk  and  perfume  and  pretty  lies,  it  hadn’t  been  enough  to  save  her  from  this  place.  this town catches  what  runs. even  the  pretty  things  end  up  in  the  mud. his gaze flicks over her, and the old name comes back to him: mine. not tenderly. never that. just a nickname he’d given her as a boy whenever she planted her flag in something and called it hers. matteo clocks enough at a glance—the ready smile, the fallen strap—right up until recognition hits and draws her spine taut. that’s  what  does  it,  in  the  end.  not  the  dress.  not  the  car.  not  even  her. the  crack  in  the  performance. “thought  you’d  rot  before you  let  this  town  touch  your  designer  heels  again.”   his  eyes  slide  past  her,  out  toward  the  jaguar  sitting  there  in  the  grit  like  some  sleek  foreign  animal  that’s  wandered  into  a  junkyard  by  mistake. “i'll take  a  look,”  matteo adds, pushing off the bench, “gonna  cost  you,  though. luxury  tax.”

six years later, and still nobody has come close to getting under her skin in the way that used to make ece wonder if maybe that was matteo's true gift; the unique and singular power to piss her off. as a kid, their mutual disdain was easier to bear. not yet fully grown out of the wildness of childhood, she remembers the freedom of being able to stomp on his toes or shove a handful of sand down his back during recess, displays of violence unburdened by the expectations of perfect behavior that came with getting older. once fists were replaced by verbal attacks, composure was a mask ece had already slipped into. long before she could manipulate the emotions in others, she'd learned to twist her own; but like a splinter you couldn't remove, there he remained, poking and prodding in all the right places to draw a reaction out of her, real and unfiltered in the way she'd tried so hard to avoid. because at the heart of her contempt, there lived a truth. it wasn't that matteo was committed to opposing every word that came out of her mouth, or that he found her vain and shallow and wasn't afraid to let her know, or that he was every inch as stubborn as she was. it wasn't that he was rude and hotheaded, or suffocating to be stuck in a room with—though ece believed all those things to be true. what provoked her about matteo was that he was all of it; unabashedly so. that he never hid from himself, every emotion worn proudly on his sleeve no matter how ugly, no matter how raw. she hated him for it. he's enjoying this. the conclusion isn't one ece needs her powers to come to, every inch of his feelings always on full display for her, presently manifesting in a grin she'd like to use the wet rag he'd set down to smack clean off his face. it bothers her more than it should, even still, no amount of time seemingly enough to stop him from reminding her of everything she can never be. but distance had granted her renewed patience; long gone were the days they existed inside each other's orbit, where they'd known each other best for better or for worse, where knowing the right buttons to press was a muscle movement they'd both committed to memory the way they had their weapons. she doesn't roll her eyes, though she does bat them, an exaggerated caricature of flirtation no longer aimed to persuade, but to mock instead. "aw." the syllable is pushed past plush lips, a step taken in his direction. "so you thought about me?" irritation bristles again at the mention of a luxury tax, not quite wound up enough yet to be baited by that fight. instead, she takes a moment to study him, eyes trailing the bruises blooming beneath his skin, taking in what she's almost certain are blood stains mixed into the oil filth of his clothes, like he'd clocked into work fresh out of a street fight. "well," ece starts, gaze snapping back to his. "clearly times are tough." the words might have come across crueler than even she'd meant them if they weren't followed by a manicured hand being pressed flat against her chest. "charity's good for the soul, anyway. just tell me what's wrong with her and then fix it like you're supposed to."

the rabbit heart already threatening to tear free from her chest leaps into her throat the moment the knocking starts, the incessant interruption breaking the spell of her anxiety just long enough for ece to rip the door open if only to get the noise to stop. alistair pryde's face on the other side is hardly registered before he shoves a bottle in her direction, annoyance cut short from blossoming into confusion once he opens his mouth to speak. she was projecting. the realization washes over her with enough embarrassment to slow the shaking hands ece had pressed up against the door frame, unable to recall the last time her abilities had been so uncontrolled. being unable to filter out his emotions some weeks ago had been one thing—but this? she might as well have opened the door naked. the word strawberry conjures an emotion akin to being slapped across the face, one she hopes alistair is no longer privy to as she takes the bottle from his hands, heart still hammering against her ribcage as she makes room for him to enter. "i don't really do dairy." never mind that she didn't really drink, the hands that'd made quick work uncapping the bottle bringing the contents towards her lips for a generous sip, delicate features twisting in the welcome distraction of disgust. the anxiety was still there, just quieter now, and when ece's eyes catch on the duffel bag slung across alistair's shoulder, she can't meet his gaze. "i didn't mean to..." the words don't quite make it out, another sip taken before she clears her throat, shoulders straightening as if there was still composure ece could maintain, like he hadn't just had a first-hand account of just how unraveled she really was. "sorry." short and sweet, no room to truly acknowledge the unfamiliar taste of the word as she now shoves the bottle back in his direction. "any chance there's a cocktail shaker in that bag? maybe some ice?"

Anne Sexton, Transformations; from ‘Red Riding Hood’

hidden amongst the stacks, accompanied by the skittering noise of wood rot and a creaking foundation bleeding into the white noise whirr of a shoddy air conditioner, it wasn't the ding of the front door's alert bell that had loretta craning their neck, but rather, the presence that accompanied it. it was one known far too well, for better and for worse. rhythmic clack of heels upon wood planks forced a straightening of her posture, fingers still postured within the pages of her current read — some herbalism research, whose content did not pose nearly as much interest as this new addition to the store's occupancy. " hm, " barely an acknowledgement the moment their eyes met, the first time in a while, having near-successfully avoided each other since ece's return. " you're upset; i can see it. " they couldn't — a bold faced lie, only meant as a taunt, a jab straight to the facade of pleasantry the other had always worn so proudly. " you're still waitin' on the welcome back parade, aren't 'cha? " a click of their tongue, sucking air through gritted teeth, " how's it feel to be old news? can't fall back on that good ol' high school popularity anymore... "

the thing about running away is that it's nearly impossible to make a clean break for it; something always gets left behind. it was just ece's misfortune that this time around that happened to mean bottles of expensive skincare and a beloved collection of fashion magazines, upon other things. two weeks holed up at the blue moon hotel and she'd reached her breaking point failing to be entertained by the staticky channels of the ancient tv in her room. it's the only reason she finds herself in the used book store in the first place, on the perfect collision course for an even greater misfortune. in the six years ece had been gone, not once was loretta lowe a face she wondered about on the nights where it was impossible to pretend she hadn't abandoned an entire lifetime in her effort to craft a new one. and still, it's them she finds tucked away into the shadows, every bit as off-putting as they still were grating. dark eyes flick over the other like a cat eyeing a toy with disinterest, glossed lips pulling into a thin smile half a second too late to be taken as warm. "loretta. wow, you look..." silvery voice suspends in midair like ece was searching for the perfect words, head cocked to the side in faux contemplation before her glossed lips part again. "exactly the same," is what she settles with, barbed words concealed by what a passerby might misinterpret as affectionate nostalgia. "who needs a welcome parade when i've got you keeping tabs on me? can't be that much of old news if you're so invested."

Le Petit Soldat (1963), dir. Jean-Luc Godard

taylor swift / a woman under the influence / the politician / alan moore / all about eve / clementine von radics / cameron awkward-rich / andrés cerpa / ocean vuong / taylor swift

— Anaïs Nin, from Henry and June: the Unexpurgated Diary (1931-1932) of Anaïs Nin (via eveninglesbian)

— Anaïs Nin, from The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. I: “November, 1933” (via intopermanence)

Jane B. par Agnés V. (1988) // dir. Agnés Varda

— Coco Mellors, Cleopatra and Frankenstein

If I Had Your Face, Frances Cha

Assassination Nation (2018)