Of the Flesh

Leela Raj-Sankar

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I wanted to go dancing. To do something where I didn’t have to feel tethered anymore, held captive by joints that screamed climbing stairs and muscles that spasmed unprovoked. But my ankles were swollen under my patterned socks, so we went to the park instead, sat on a bench and stared at the birds swooping low over the water.

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It had been a difficult week. The weather had turned sour, suddenly—it had dropped twenty degrees overnight, and I had woken up with a nasty migraine on Wednesday that still hadn’t faded three days later. Both the cloud cover and the blank look in J’s eyes had refused to lift; it was unnerving, almost, to see how the cold could make him retreat so thoroughly, replying in single syllables whenever I tried to ask what was wrong. Neither of us were very good at talking about anything important. We loved each other (that part I was sure of), but nothing was ever resolved between us: even on the nights we argued bitterly, he’d still fall asleep with his head against my hip while I read. In the morning, he’d make me coffee and say don’t worry about it, and that was all the closure either of us got. 

 

But it was harder in winter. Everything was. Our routines disrupted and re-folded themselves into a new normal, stretched just a little too tight at the seams to be comfortable. It wasn’t that we didn’t talk because we didn’t have anything to say to each other. We didn’t talk because we didn’t know how to phrase what we did want to say. If the words came out of my mouth and took shape in the frozen air, then I couldn’t pretend that what I thought wasn’t real, like I had been doing for the past year.  

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J took naps, made coffee, took more naps. I reorganized my collection of medical supplies, rubbed Tiger Balm into my calves, and religiously put ice on my subluxed shoulder. I spent a lot of time wondering how many others had looked at themselves in the mirror, held together by Kinesiotape and scar tissue, and thought, my God, is this really all there is? Will I fake being happy for the rest of my life?

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On Thursday night, I put on Billie Holiday and danced around the kitchen in my socks, wincing at how gracelessly my limbs moved. Flickers of the usual fast-talking, bright-eyed J crossed in and out of the frame as he watched; at some point, he roused himself from his pile of blankets and messily waltzed me around, laughing. It only lasted an hour, maybe two—as if on cue, my knees began to ache and J was tired again. But it was there. I knew it was there. I knew if I tried long and hard enough, I could look that cold, dark emptiness in the face and finally convince myself neither of us truly wanted to die. 

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The birds turned circles over the pond. I tucked my head into J’s shoulder and spoke, offhandedly, of how I had been stalking the Royal Opera House’s Youtube channel, how I had watched Natalia Osipova’s Swan Lake over and over, trying to memorize the controlled tremble of her muscles as she danced the dying swan. 

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“That could have been me,” I said. We both knew it was a lie. All I really meant was I miss dancing. Even if I wasn’t sick, I wouldn’t have been a great dancer. I didn’t have the patience, or dedication, or discipline. But regardless, irrationally, even knowing how my hips creaked and knees threatened to buckle, I wanted it back. Normalcy. What a stupid word that was.

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J touched my hair, briefly. “We could go home. Put on music and dance in the kitchen like we did a couple nights ago.” 

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Neither of us really wanted that. I was too sick and he was too depressed, but it was nice to pretend. It was somehow both sweet and sickening to know he’d do that for me, make himself feel worse to make me feel better. 

“Don’t be stupid,” I said. “I’m not going to force you to dance with me just because I want something I know I can’t have. I’m not in the business of making you more miserable than necessary.”

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He was smiling, but it was sadder than I had expected. “It wouldn’t feel that way, you know. Not with you.”