‘The Warmth of Other Things’

By Sarah Crosby

​

 

In the days leading up to the gig, you become a new kind of animal. You grow extra senses. One for what you will wear, one for what you will say, one for the exact dimensions of the chair you will sit in, if there is a chair. If there is no chair, you will stand near the back, but standing can be adjusted. You will push yourself toward a table. You will tilt your body at an angle that suggests you are about to sit. You will create a chair where there is none.

​

You walk into a small boutique across the river. The clothes are hung gently, as if they have been sleeping. You try not to wake them. 

​

There is a black dress, long-sleeved, with embroidered flowers. No sequins. No velvet. This is the one. It looks like a dress that has already been worn by the right version of you, the version who knew how to pick things out of shops without looking like a child playing dress-up. You find your size and take it to the till. The woman behind the till has loose curls, some pinned back. You watch her fingers as she folds the dress, taps her screen. You store her hair in your body like a consent form. You will need to allot yourself forty minutes to replicate it. At least.

​

Then, foundation. You need a skin that is your own, but better. A woman in a black apron finds you. She has one thousand brushes. She has seen every kind of face and forgiven them all. She points at the chair, does not ask. You sit. She holds up a bottle, removes the cap with the same care as someone opening an envelope containing news that will change their life, or someone else’s.

​

What kind of coverage? She asks. Her voice low and soft, more mystic guide than makeup artist. An oracle. A life lived for every brush carried. 

​

Medium? You try.

​

Good choice, she says. 

​

You are instantly giddy. You have been a good child.

​

She dabs at you. The brush is warm. This surprises you. You think about the warmth of other things. The skin of an apple in your palm. The heat trapped inside a pocket.

​

Going somewhere nice? She asks, pressing a different brush against your cheek like she is sealing a wound.   I’m going to a gig tonight. 

​

She nods. A slow, knowing nod. As if she has always known this about you. As if the moment you walked in, she sensed: This woman will be going to a gig tonight. She adjusts her grip on a bottle with blue perfumed serum, inhaling through her nose, exhaling through her mouth.

​

Leaving it a little late, no? 

​

She says it gently, the way a nurse might say, your family will be here soon.

​

Yeah, you say. It had not occurred to me.

​

She places a warm hand on your forehead. You can’t think of a particular reason why she would, only perhaps, to centre you. To stabilise you. Fortify you before what comes next. She closes her eyes, exhales again. You do the same.

​

Well, she says. It has occurred to me.

​

You imagine holding her by her thin wrists then. Asking, who am I? Demanding. 

​

You know who, she would reply, gently levitating now. You’ve always known.

​

She picks up a fresh brush. 

​

You are five years old when you learn about electricity. You understand that it is in the walls, but it is also in the air. It enters your brain through a picture book or a TV programme, and then it refuses to leave. You lie on your bed, perfectly still. A doll arranged for display. You do not blink. You do not kick off the quilt. You are waiting for a bill to be dropped into the porch, for the lights to flicker out, for Mum to say:

​

That’s it, that’s all the electricity we can afford. We must now live in darkness.

​

Dad finds you in the dark. He is wearing his blue jumper, the one he wears in nearly every memory you have of him. He kneels beside you, presses a hand onto the mattress, as if testing its softness.

​

Why are you sitting like this?

​

You grip the duvet in small tight bunches. I don’t know how we’re going to pay for it. He nods. He does not ask what. He does not say, what do you mean? He nods, like this makes sense. It is nice to be understood.

​

Mum appears in the doorway. The hallway light casts her in silhouette. She could be a saint or a demon or just a regular woman who was in the middle of making tea which was the most likely possibility. Your father tells her what has happened, though in this memory his voice has a Cork accent now. He was not from Cork. He had never been from Cork.

​

Don’t be silly, your mother says. And then, why didn’t you say something?

​

The question is a seed, planted deep in your stomach. It will grow and branch and bear fruit over the years, sprouting from the mouths of teachers, friends, strangers, lovers.

​

Why didn’t you just say it? Why didn’t you just tell me that? Why didn’t you just do this?

​

And the truth is, it had not occurred to you.

​

It had not occurred to you, it had not occurred to you, it had not occurred to you.

​

One day, years later, you will hear David Huddleston say this line in The Big Lebowski and feel it accurately explains the malady. A lack of occurrence. You will pause the movie. You will rewind and watch it again, sitting very still, rewinding, watching again, rewinding, watching again.

​

No, Mr. Lebowski. It had not occurred to me.

​

You say it. And each time, it feels less like a reason and more like a prayer. 

​

And each time, you will see they don’t believe you. 

​

Because it must have occurred to you. 

​

It has not occurred to them, that it had not occurred to you. 

​

How could it not have? 

​

They will assume you had a choice. As though you had thought of it, whatever ‘it’ or ‘that’ or ‘this’ might be, and actively decided against it. They will assume you peered at the choice and slowly lowered the lid on the coffin. But the truth is, there was never a choice at all. There was only the dark room, the warm press of your father’s jumper, and the sound of your mother clicking her tongue in the doorway.

​

What kind of finish do you like? She asks.

​

Before you can ask what your options are, she decides. 

​

Glowy.

​

She tilts your chin, sweeps colour across your face, like a Renaissance painter. No, more like a Renaissance woman, a scholar of art and science and the human form, except she is holding a damp sponge.

​

And this? She asks, brandishing a brush.

​

Peachy? You whisper.

​

Correct, she whispers back.

​

Your face is done before you realise it is being done. You look in the mirror. You are taller, or something like taller. More certain. A woman who knows her own name.

​

I’ll take the foundation, you say, because this is what it costs to be seen.

​

She places a fresh bottle in your palms. You create a nest with them.

​

Cradle it gently. Something waiting to open its eyes.