A few minutes later I get a text in reply.
All is well, stay where you are. We got white roses, as Vincent said that’s what she had in her wedding bouquet. I’ll look for the watch and ring in the morning. We decided on ‘I’m Every Woman’ by Chaka Khan because it was on her birthday playlist twice. Be well, love J.
Chaka Khan. I lie face down on the bed, howling. Finally I’m crying, salt water streaming from my eyes. Chaka Khan. I can’t deal with this. I need to remove this head of mine and replace it with the two-headed thing. I need to flee these feelings. I need someone unfamiliar. I need skin-to-skin contact like a newborn.
I grab my phone and open the dating app, flicking quickly across the faces of local men, swept away by my seemingly sentient thumb. Some of their photographs are taken at such close range that there is no other colour on the small square except for pixelated tones of skin. So many forced smiles and tensed abs. My thumb hits a steady rhythm of rejection and I rearrange one of the pillows so that I am more comfortable. ‘Chaka fucking Khan,’ I say while flicking them away. I’m still crying. Wishing desperately for someone to appear on the screen who will meet my slowly lowering standards.
Mike, 28, likes: Treating you like a princess, and fish dinners on Fridays.
Mike has a shiny, thin-lipped mouth.
Lachlan, 32, likes: Whatever! I hate answering these things.
Lachlan looks reasonably tall and wears a faded flannel shirt.
Trent, 27, likes: Movies, driving, my kelpie pup, beer.
Trent has a scar across his jawline.
Bibi, 30, likes: You?
Bibi has two pictures of his slightly chubby chest from different angles.
Leo, 28, likes: Spanking and TV.
In one of the photos Leo is topless and tensing his muscles while yawning.
Leo wins.
I message him: Hello.
He responds: I don’t like messaging. Better to talk.
He sends through his phone number, followed by a picture of him sprawled across a satin bedsheet lit by the fluorescent glow of a nearby television.
I shuffle down the bed and kick the bedroom door closed, while typing his number into my phone. I hold it to my ear, feeling heat prickle in the centre of my armpits and at the backs of my knees.
He picks up on the third ring.
‘Speaking?’ he says, his voice slightly higher than I was expecting.
I clear my throat directly into the microphone.
‘It’s Amelia. You just gave me your number.’
‘How are you?’ He lazily draws out each word, like he’s just woken up. ‘I’m bored,’ he adds before I have time to reply.
I like how familiar he is with me so quickly, and I make a concerned sound into the phone.
‘Well, life is either boring or shocking,’ I say.
‘I’m bored all the time.’ He laughs.
I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts in.
‘I’m going to a kink club—do you want to come? It’s hardcore, though, no vanilla shit. I don’t know if you’re into that.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘It’s, like, fun, and people dance and fuck and you can watch, or you can take part.’
I glance around the bedroom. I would rather be in a club. I would rather not be thinking of my mother’s ruined funeral. ‘Okay,’ I say.
I hear a faint clattering sound in the background and he swears. ‘My cat just knocked over the blender—fucking Siamese. Alright then, send me your address and I’ll pick you up. The dress code is black.’
He hangs up. I send him the address then sit looking at the phone for a minute before moving.
I wonder if going to a kink club with someone I’ve never met is a kneejerk reaction to all the trauma. I’ve read about the science of grief. The brain shuts down when people mourn. The lobes go black, but the amygdala lights up. I walk into the ensuite and sit on the toilet. Am I being lit from within by my amygdala? I’m not sure. I wipe myself, but I don’t know if I even need to. I flush the toilet just in case. I remember to wash my hands, and do it half-heartedly, without soap. Perhaps there is an afterlife and my mother is there watching as I prepare to meet up with a man I’ve only exchanged a handful of words with.
I pick up my phone and look the amygdala up. The first article I click on talks about how it can be activated when the body is put through triggering situations. I put my phone down and pull my hairbrush out of my toiletry bag so that I can cover my poor amygdala gently with hair. I hope that each brush is like a dimmer switch slowly lowering it, until everything inside is off.
I could get away with saying that I have no control over my actions because I am completely lost, but it’s not true. I am desperately trying to dock at another port. I can’t make small decisions right now; I can only make big ones. I am not going to her funeral. I am going to this club. I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m getting ready. I’m going to have a wonderfully shocking time.
I rummage through my suitcase, trying to find something to wear to the kink club. I make a pile of everything black. Most of it looks like t-shirts and jeans, a lot of cotton. Surely these parties have come full circle now and normal clothes are considered erotic. Surely the lights will be dim enough to cover the outfit, and surely I can still go and be obliterated by someone else and forget this daughter ever ran away from her mother’s death. I’ll burn this body to the ground, and then bury myself deeper than her.
I tuck a black t-shirt into a pair of black jeans and then stand in front of the mirror, looking through my make-up case. I
