THE TALKING MAGRITTE

by
Chris Killen

�That�s it! I�m sick of it!� Alice screamed, pulling the tablecloth over her head. The tablecloth had come from underneath our dinner plates and wine glasses, which were now in pieces on the floor. �I�m sick of beauty.�

From anyone else, such a remark would sound conceited, but Alice was beautiful. She was the most beautiful woman I knew, and certainly the most beautiful woman I�d ever slept with. She hated it when people looked at her � she said they were only looking at the �surface her�, and not the �real her� buried underneath. It was a topic that came up once in a while, usually when we�d had a couple, but she�d never done anything about it before.

�So you�re going to stay under that tablecloth forever?� I prompted.

�Just you watch me.� She sounded determined. �And find me the scissors. I�ll need some eye holes.�

The holes she cut were barely more than slits. Despite how hard I peered into them all I could see was darkness. Later, when we were watching TV, I could hear her breathing softly next to me but I couldn�t tell what she was thinking. I didn�t know if she was smiling or frowning or fast asleep. I began to panic that I couldn�t even remember what she looked like, but in the dark of the flickering room I pieced her back together.

I started with her nose (which was small � �stunted� she called it � and lightly freckled), her eyes (which were like watery blue lamps), and her mouth (which was either in mid-pout, or else the bottom lip was being coaxed in and chewed), her chin, her cheeks, her hair. I arranged her features with a careful precision, adding dashes here and there like a portrait painter. Once done, I stepped back to admire the finished thing. Phew. She was beautiful again. She smiled at me. Her eyes glittered. Her teeth were white and very slightly crooked. Her black hair was fresh out of the shower, and fell in glistening curls against her bare shoulders; it was two days ago, the day we�d done it before work. She was on top of me, pink, sweet-smelling, freshly scrubbed � She was leaning down to kiss me; her mouth was curling into a smile; the wet ends of her hair were brushing against my chest �

Then she coughed, as if she knew what I was thinking. God. But how could she? I snuck her a quick glance, just to make sure. Of course I had no way of telling. We were watching a comedy. I waited for her to laugh. Six jokes went by, and she didn�t laugh at a single one of them. She knows. Don�t be stupid, I thought. She�s just tired. Upset. But why did she cough like that? What in Christ�s name is she thinking? Seven jokes sailed past us, each one funnier than the last, and neither of us laughed, eight, me feeling guilty for remembering her face, nine, Alice with her arms folded and the tablecloth over her head. An enigma.

The first night it was especially difficult. I was already in bed, watching her get undressed. She slipped off her jeans, unbuttoned her shirt, unclasped her bra, slid off her knickers. I waited for the tablecloth to come off. Here it comes, I told myself. Any second now � It didn�t. Instead she just crawled under the covers and shuffled up next to me. It smelled of pasta and red wine.

�Can I still kiss you?� I asked.

She nodded (well, something that looked like a nod), so I began sliding the cloth very gently over her chin, just as far as her mouth. Maybe this could have a certain erotic element after all, I thought. Then her hand shot up and clutched my wrist.

�No,� she hissed. �Through the sheet.�

One Saturday afternoon we were out at the pier. A gust of wind whipped it right off her head, taking it out to sea.

�Oh no!� she wailed.

In a flash she had her jacket zipped up over her head. It happened so fast I didn�t get a chance to look at her; I was too busy watching the tablecloth flutter over the waves, landing on the water like some sort of aquatic picnic. I led her home by the arm, cursing myself for not being quicker and turning to catch a glimpse of her instead. After that she added a dog collar, which she only unclasped at meal times.

I didn�t even have any photographs: they all got burnt in the back yard.

Just a peek, now and again, I told myself. That was all I wanted � Once a week, once a month � A poxy little Polaroid would do. But there was no reasoning with her.

�If you really love me, then I�m beautiful enough already,� she�d say.

So in the early hours of the morning, when she was safely asleep, or when I was at work and it was quiet, I would get out her features, polish them lovingly, and piece them back together. Her hair was now a sleek, velvet, fiery black. Her lips were glossy and pink. Her skin was porcelain; her freckles were a scattering of miniature autumn leaves, resting on the vanilla ice cream of her nose.

The thing that really pissed me off was that once she left the house, once she was at work, in fact any time she wasn�t with me, off came the blanket. She didn�t want people to think she was crazy, she said. The fact that I was trying to love the real her meant she no longer gave a fuck whether or not she got whoops and cat-calls from every building site in the city. I�d find myself fantasising that I was an anonymous shopper in the supermarket, loitering around the produce, peering at her from behind the banana display.

It had come to a head. My mind was made up: I�d have to begin stalking her, just to get a good look at her. Her beauty was precious and I couldn�t live without it anymore. I�d planned a disguise, I was all ready to begin, but first came our one-year anniversary�

She was excited about something � I could tell by the cadence of her speech. I�d grown quite attune to things like that. We�d eaten a meal at the flat, drank two bottles of cheap merlot, and she was fiddling with her desert spoon while trying to think of a way to word whatever was coming next.

�We�ve been together for a year now,� she started.

I was chewing on my lip. I think I know what�s coming next, I thought.

�I know you love me ...�

She�d taken off the collar and laid it very finally on the table. Oh god, I hoped it was coming. My stomach was twisted in knots.

�� and I think I�m finally sure that you love me ��

Every part of my body was waiting for her to say it.

�� so tonight I�ve decided ��

My whole being hung from her voice like a coat hanger.

�� to take off the tablecloth.�

It was true! It was finally going to happen!

�Right now?�

�Why not?� she said, and casually yanked off the tablecloth.

My eyes clouded over, I was going to faint, I had to steady myself against the table. �Wait! Hold on!� I wanted to cry. But it was done � the cloth was off. I took a moment to prepare myself, to get my head together, before I leant forward and looked at her.

�Well?� she said, smiling an actual smile I could see.

I looked at her.

I looked at her nose (which was just her nose), her eyes (which were just her eyes), and her mouth (which was just her mouth), her cheeks, her chin, etc. Something sank like a brick to the pit of my stomach.

�Oh,� I said, and watched the smile disappear.

� Chris Killen
Reproduced with permission

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