I’ve fallen in love with the lady who lives on the seventh floor. I do not know her first name, though her last is written on the doorbell: “Geppetto.” I do not even know what she is, but this does not seem to be a barrier between us. I’ve begun something that I must see through, even if it costs me my humanity.
At first I thought that perhaps she had an unusual form of vitiligo, but after a closer look, I now know that her skin is marked with the same grain that one finds on polished rosewood. I’m not proud of the truth- I know this last detail because she seduced me. She gripped my wrist in the elevator, and the texture of her grip startled me more than the act itself. I caught her gaze, and there was no separation between her pupils and irises- what was there had four corners, and bore the glaze of stained glass.
That’s all it took.
Am I pushover? Perhaps. But I regret nothing.
Beneath her dress, she was like something crafted by Stradivarius; I found smooth surfaces in place of ribs, tenderness that defied anatomy and carpentry alike. In places, she opened like a cello, revealing an intimate sort of hollowness; yet when her back arched, or her limbs twisted, I could see the outline of inner strings pressed against her frame. She was her own puppeteer- perhaps even moreso than I. In retrospect, I don’t think she had a voice- that, or she chose to say nothing at all, and simply led with delicate hands.
By the end of the night, she seemed almost human. Almost. Her skin was softer, her joints smoother, and her eyes bore rings of opal and jade. She smiled at me, and I swear that her face showed signs of blush. I couldn’t understand what we had just done, but I knew that somehow, it had changed us both.
It’s been two weeks, now. My bones have never seemed heavier, and I feel as though every move that I make is manual, deliberate. When I rise from bed, my elbows creak with agonized dissonance, and they’ve begun to bend in unfamiliar ways.
My own flesh is not enough for me anymore. I need to go back.