Clean. Focused. Precise. That’s how I am in the kitchen.
Hands buried in cold, clammy, raw chicken – pulling back skin and yanking out veins because I like my meat pristine. Slicing off excess skin from pork chops; cross-hatches scoured through the skin, a quarter-inch deep in the fatback of hearty duck breasts; a dozen bell peppers diced to quarter-by-quarter inch squares; two-centimeter onion ring slices; knife-minced garlic; chiffonaded basil–
Clean. Focused. Precise. That’s how I am in the bedroom.
Hands clasping your thighs, holding you up as I hold you down – peeling back the layers of your skin and coaxing out your pleasure, your sighs, your gasps. I go deep, deep into your intimacies, deep into this moment, shutting us out from outside concerns from passing trucks rumbling in the background; ignoring sweat drops beading on our skin and the humidity of summer evenings; blocking thought from formation; placing you on that precipice–
Clean. Focused. Precise. That’s how I am when I leave.
I calmly wipe you clean from my life, like spraying down a dirty car, Windex on a smudged mirror: larger circles to smaller circles to tiny circles to spick-speck clean. I erase our messages. I erase our whispered words. I erase our shared existence. I erase you – I erase the me that I’d become with you. I erase and wipe and clean and wash down and break and shatter and toss aside and wreck wreck wreck what was and the memory of what was because nothing, not a single drop, not even the tiniest bit of evidence, can remain.
Clean. Focused. Precise.
It is the only way I know how to be.