EPTComments and criticisms welcome. (remember--authors and narrators are not the same person! kthx)
GrandMart
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When I met her, she gave me a ribbon of indeterminate size. “It’s magical,” she said, with a wink. I remember the wink; her eyes closed in a novice one-two-blink, one after the other even though a wink is, according to any master of flirtation (like myself), only with one eye. Two eyes meant inexperience, over-commitment, allergies. Nothing sexy or coquettish. Nothing magical. Your ribbon, I said, is a ribbon of lies, a sequence of dyed textile and untruths; a false cure for Cancer, Breast Cancer, Ovarian Cancer, Skin Cancer, Heart Cancer, 5k mile runs, the opening of GrandMart on the corner of Edwardson Avenue.
Her ribbon would stretch and stretch, like a piece of purple taffy (it was purple). I would tie one end to the doorknob and then slam the door slam the door slam the door SLAM SLAM SLAM until it stretched and expanded and pooled into a sorry purple puddle below my doorknob. I liked how it never stopped stretching, never stopped growing to accommodate for every door slam and yank and test of willpower that it was subjected to. It was a test of indeterminacy, a test of magicality. The purple was a promise. She promised that it would be magical.
It was, because it was magical.
I tied my room key to the end of the purple ribbon (or did I tie the ribbon to the end of my room key?) and spent my evenings wandering outside in the courtyard of the Inn so that I could smile at the receptionist and tell her (with a wink—a proper one), No need, no need, I haven’t forgotten my room key this time, and flash my little key and wait in the elevator and unlock my door with my little magic ribbon. Once, I did my laundry and ruined the ribbon but then I pulled it and pulled it until there was enough unruined ribbon to make up for the ruined bits. I cut off the rest and left it in a recycling bin down the hall. No one found out that it was mine, but the cops came and I hid in the room for three days.
But GrandMart never opened.
I demanded to see her again. When I met her again (this time in the courtyard of the Inn, where I could show her where the purple flowers grew and where the bees liked to hum), she winked and both her eyes were closed and then I kissed her because her eyes were closed and that’s what you do to girls with closed eyes—you kiss them, hard and on the mouth. I stroked her hair and put my hand up her shirt and spoke very softly, very gently to her, You’re magical, you’re magical, and then I pulled down her skirt and pulled her legs apart and pulled and pulled but they wouldn’t stretch and I got angry. Your ribbon, I said, is a ribbon of lies, a sequence of coquetry and falsified flesh. I pulled and I pulled and she came apart at the seams and I cried, but I hid the pieces in the recycling bin and no one found out that she was mine.
+ Show Spoiler [Question] +
Did you think the narrator was male or female?
The reason why I ask is because my professor felt uncomfortable not knowing--I personally intended the voice to be read as slightly childish, slightly crazy, but perfectly logical-in-his-head male, but she questioned the assumption of his gender: are all acts of sexual violence necessarily male? Is it possible to read this narrator as a lesbian?
