Tenderness

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 113 of 145 · 20 per page

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  Seizing now one of the rods, I stood over him, and according to his direction, gave him in one breath, ten lashes with much good-will, and the utmost nerve and vigour of arm that I could put to them, so as to make those fleshy orbs quiver again under them; whilst he himself seemed no more concerned, or to mind them, than a lobster would a flea-bite. In the mean time, I view intently the effect of them, which to me at last appeared surprisingly cruel: every lash had skimmed the surface of those white cliffs, which they deeply reddened, and lapping round the side of the furthermost from me, cut specially, into the dimple of it, such livid weals, as the blood either spun out from, or stood in large drops on; and, from some of the cuts, I picked out even the splinters of the rod that had stuck in the skin. Nor was this raw work to be wondered at, considering the greenness of the twigs and the severity of the infliction, whilst the whole surface of the skin was so smooth-stretched over the hard and firm pulp of flesh that filled it, as to yield no play, or elusive swagging under the stroke: which thereby took place the more plump, and cut into the quick. I was however already so moved at the piteous sight, that I from my heart repented the undertaking, and would willing had given over, thinking he had full enough; but, he encouraging and beseeching me earnestly to proceed, I gave him ten more lashes; and then resting, surveyed the increase of bloody appearances.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  He moved in for the kill. “We’ll walk to the car,” he said. “I’ll open the door for you, because that’s what I do. We will drive to a great Greek place. Best gyros you’ve ever tasted-open twenty-four hours. You get to choose the music in the car. I’ll open your door, we’ll go inside, get a table by the window. We want the table by the window because the restaurant is across the street from a gym, and the gym is next door to a doughnut shop. And we’ll want to count how many gym goers stop for doughnuts after they work out. We’ll talk or we can just watch the doughnut shop. Whatever you want. But you have to leave the house, Senna. And I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Please.” I was shaking by the time he finished. So violently I had to sit down on the bottom stair, my fingernails bending against the wood. That meant I was considering what he was saying. Actually thinking about leaving the house, wanting to taste the gyros … see the doughnut shop. But not just that, there was something in his voice. He needed to do this. When I looked up, Isaac Asterholder was still where he was. Waiting. “Okay,” I said. It wasn’t like me, but everything had changed. And if he kept showing up for me, I could show up for him. Just this once. It was raining. I liked the cover that rain provided. It protected you from the hard brutality of the sun. It brought things to life, made them flourish. I was born in the desert where the sun and my father almost killed me. I lived in Washington because of the rain, because of how it made my life feel washed of my past. I stared out the window until Isaac handed me his iPod. It was beat-up looking. Well loved. He had the Finding Neverland soundtrack. I pressed play, and we drove without words, from our lips or from our music. The restaurant was called Olive and smelled like onions and lamb. We sat by the window, just as Isaac promised, and ordered gyros. Neither of us spoke. It was enough to be out among the living. We watched people amble on the sidewalk across the street. Gym goers and doughnut shop goers, and just as he promised, sometimes they were one and the same. The shop was called The Doughnut Hole. It had a large picture of a pink frosted doughnut on the storefront with an arrow pointing to the hole in the center. There was a large flashing blue sign that said, Open 24/7. People in the city didn’t sleep. I should live there.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  It’s dark in the kitchen. I don’t want to put the light on and risk Isaac knowing I was in here. If he is trying to avoid me, I’ll help him. But when I look up he’s standing in the doorway watching me. We stare at each other for the longest time. I feel anxious. It looks like he has something to say. I think he’s come to fight some more, but then I see something else in his eyes. He takes the steps to reach me. One … two … three … four. He’s standing in front of my knees. My hair is wild and unruly. I can’t remember the last time I brushed it. It’s grown past where my breasts used to be. Now it’s sort of a shawl across my upper body, so that even when I’m naked I don’t have to see myself. I don’t even bother to hide my white streak behind my ear like I usually do when Isaac is around. It curls in front of my eye, partly obscuring my vision. Isaac pushes my hair over my shoulder and I flinch involuntarily. Then he puts his hands on my knees. Their warmth stings. He pushes outward, spreading my legs, then he takes a step forward until he’s standing between them. He bends his head until our mouths are almost touching. Almost. The fingers on both of my hands are splayed on the tabletop behind me, balancing myself. I can feel the grooves of my carvings. The carvings Isaac helped me make. He doesn’t kiss me. We have never spoken about the kiss we shared when we thought we were dying. He breathes into my mouth as his hands run up the length of my thighs. His hands feel like warm water running across my skin. I cold shiver. My robe is hiked up to the top of my thighs. When his palms leave my legs, I want to cry out, No! I want more of the warmth, but he reaches up and grabs both lapels of my robe, pulling it open and exposing my chest. I’m frozen. Numb. He touches my scars. My barren womanhood. Frozen … frozen … frozen … and then I break open. I gasp and grab his hands, pushing them away. “What are you doing?” He doesn’t answer me. He lifts his hands to my neck. Wherever he touches me there is heat. I roll my head back and his thumbs graze my jaw. “What I want,” he says. I roll my head to the left to try to pull away from him, but he pushes his hand into my hair at the back of my head, and kisses the side of my neck until I’m shivering. He has me at a disadvantage; I’m trying to keep myself upright with one hand and push him away with the other. Eventually, my hand slips out from under me and we collapse on the table.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  After a week, he comes up the stairs with a handful of green bandages. “There’s no infection that I can see around the wound. It’s healing.” I notice that he didn’t say, Healing well. “The bone could still become infected, but we can hope the penicillin will take care of that.” “What’s that?” I ask, nodding toward his hands. “I’m going to put your leg in a cast. Then I can move you to the bed.” “What if the bone doesn’t fuse together properly?” I ask. He’s quiet for a long time as he works with the supplies. “It’s not going to heal properly,” he says. “You’ll most likely walk with a limp for the rest of your life. On most days, you’ll have pain.” I close my eyes. Of course. Of course. Of course. When I look up again, he’s cutting the toes off of a white sock. He fits it over my foot as gently as he can and pulls it up my leg. I force breath from my nostrils to keep from wailing. It must be one of his. The sock. The zookeeper didn’t give me any white socks. He didn’t give me anything white. Isaac does the same thing with a second sock, and then a third, until I have them lined from the middle of my foot to my knee. Then he takes one of the bandages from the bucket of water. It’s not a bandage, I realize. It’s rolls of a fiberglass cast. He starts mid foot, rolling the cast around and around until it runs out. Then he plucks out a new roll and does it again. Over and over until he’s used all five rolls and my leg is fully cast. Isaac leans back to examine his work. He looks exhausted. “Let’s give it some time to dry, then I’ll move you to the bed.” We stay in the attic room, forgetting the rest of the house. Day after day … after day … after day. I count the days we’ve lost. Days I’ll never get back. Two hundred and seventy-seven of them. One day I ask him to drum for me. “With what?” I can’t really see his face—it’s too dark—but I know that his eyebrows are raised and there is a trace of a smile on his lips. He needs this. I need this. “Sticks,” I suggest. And then, “Please, Isaac. I want to hear music.” “Music without words,” he says, softly. I shake my head, though he can’t see me do it. “I want to hear the music you can make.”

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  It ripped at me until I wanted to gasp for breath. How could music know what you were feeling? How could it help you name it? I went to my closet. There was a box on my top shelf. I pulled it down and ripped off the lid. There was a red vase. Bright. Brighter than blood. My father sent it to me when my first book was published. I thought it was terrible—so bright it hurt my eyes. Now, my eyes were drawn to the color. I carried it to my white room and set it on the desk. Now there was blood everywhere. I searched for a song for days. I was new to the wonders of iTunes. I went back to Florence Welch. There was something about the intensity of her. I found it. I didn’t know how to transfer it to one of those generic CD’s he used. But I found out. Then I drove to the hospital, the disk on my lap the whole time. I stood for a long time next to his car. This was a bold move. It was color. I didn’t know I had any color. I put the brown envelope on his windshield, and hoped for the best. His songs reminded me of swimming, which somehow I’d forgotten.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  But there is no rest, because he grabs me under my arms and pulls me up to a sitting position. I gasp and grab the sides of the tub. I’m naked except for a sports bra and panties. He pours shampoo on my head; I bat at his hands like a child until his fingers find my scalp. Then I let him. My body, rigid a second ago, slouches as he rubs the fight out of my head. He washes me, using his hands and a sponge that looks like it came straight from a coral reef. Surgeon’s hands rub across my muscles and my skin until I’m so relaxed I can barely move. I close my eyes when he rinses my hair. Both of his hands are holding my head up, cradling it so I don’t sink beneath the water’s surface. When they suddenly stop moving I open my eyes. Isaac is staring at me from above. His eyebrows are almost touching, so deep is his consternation. I reach up without thinking and cradle his cheek with my hand. I would be worried that he could see through my thin, white sports bra, but there is nothing to see. I’m practically a boy. I take my hand away and then I start to chortle. It sounds like a burst of madness. Why do I even wear a sports bra? It’s so stupid. I should just walk around topless. I laugh harder, swallowing a mouthful of water as my body rolls to the side. I am choking—choking and laughing. Isaac pulls me up. Then all at once the sound and the choking are gone. I am Senna again. I stare at the wall behind the tap, feeling tired. Isaac grabs my shoulders and shakes me. “Please,” he says. “Just try to live.” My eyes are so tired. He picks me up out of the bath. I close my eyes as he kneels on the floor to dry me, then wraps me up in a towel that smells of him. I loop my arms around his neck as he carries me to the ladder. I squeeze his neck a little, just so he knows I’ll try.

• From Between Us

  They do not curtail this behavior, and show empathy and understanding. In the case of the preschoolers Nao and Maki (also introduced in chapter 3), Nao clung to her mother’s leg, and in so doing, she was acting younger than her age. She did not take control in the situation, and waited till someone else did. Maki became the nurturing partner, and in so doing accepted an amae relationship. She approached Nao and convinced her to play with her. Maki thus accepted Nao’s inappropriate demeanor and offered what Nao needed. Amae not only presupposes, but also— importantly—created an interdependent relationship between the girls. Therefore, amae, a central emotion in Japanese close relationships, achieves interdependence, rather than mutual admiration, attraction, and longing. Amae is certainly not restricted to childhood. You grant your close friends or your romantic partners what they need even, or especially, if it is unreasonable. Amae is based on need and indulgence, rather than idealization or elevation of the partner. In her book Unnatural Emotions, anthropologist Catherine Lutz describes a central Ifaluk emotion of closeness and dependence: fago. One of the translations of fago is “love.” However, unlike U.S. American love, which shares features with joy, fago shares features with sadness and compassion. Fago is “right” in Ifaluk society. It is a mature person’s response to the suffering of others: the readiness to take care of other people in need. Fago is typically felt for someone who is sick, dying, or without family, but it also occurs in a more pleasant context, as is apparent from an example involving Tamalekar. A young man from another island came to visit him by ship. The visit was appropriate, because the young man shared a clan affiliation with Tamalekar. They and the rest of Tamalekar’s family spent the evening in quiet talk, with the [ . . . ] man speaking with respect and politeness. The visitor had distinguished himself by bringing a gift of a carton of cigarettes. The evening wore on past the point at which the family usually retired, and when the young man stepped out for a moment [ . . . ], Tamalekar said to his family, “We fago this one because he is calm. Even though we are sleepy, we’ll stay up and talk with him.” Later Tamalekar gave the man one of his valued possessions. The meaning of fago as taking care of someone does not change, but this time the nurturing is prompted by a man, who through his calm and kind behavior (not through his needs), demonstrates having compassion himself. Compassion meets compassion and nurturing; in this case, the act of fago is more reciprocal. Whereas love seeks joyful closeness between autonomous individuals who find each other special, fago is nurturing a person with whom a connection already exists, or else has come to be felt.

• From Between Us

  In another study, psychologist Krishna Savani and colleagues (one of them being me) asked Mexican college students (in Mexico) and their white American counterparts to describe situations in which they “felt good.” Mexican students described more connected happiness, using words like “affection,” “gratitude,” and “sympathy.” These are emotions that create a positive link between yourself and another person. For example, one Mexican student reported: My newborn nephew opened his eyes after sleeping and he fixated a look on my face for 15 seconds. I felt affection and harmony [between unequals]. White American college students reported as many situations that made them feel good, but they did not report as much connected happiness. Instead, they reported self-esteem-related happiness, using such terms as “pride,” “superior,” and “confident” to describe their good feelings. Not only did Mexican college students report more good feelings that connected them to others, these positive connections also motivated them. In a follow-up study, Krishna Savani and colleagues asked Mexican students in Mexico and white American students to write about a time when they experienced good feelings either towards another person (connected happiness) or about themselves (self-confident happiness). Next, they asked them to solve anagrams. Mexican college students were more motivated to solve the anagrams after recalling a time when they felt connected happiness towards another person: It is important to do well for your family. Therefore, it is not just that Latinx or Mexicans experience more happiness in the context of connectedness, but this kind of happiness (and not the happiness that is tied to high self-esteem and high activation) is what motivates them in task pursuit. In Latinx contexts, feeling good is feeling connected. It is a happiness that comes with connecting behaviors: to want to be with others or hug them. The “right” happiness is not the happiness in which self-esteem figures prominently. Connected happiness is right and motivating. Feeling good is of all times and all places, but happiness is not. Happiness American-style is a contemporary, local emotion. Happy people may also reach out to others, but first and foremost, they shine and stand out—the ideals of middle-class white Americans. In many East Asian contexts, feeling good is being calm, as calm happiness optimally prepares you to adjust to social and situational requirement. Not surprisingly, calm activities are healthy. And in East Asian contexts, you choose activities in function of being prepared to the point where you can be calm, and no longer worried. Immediate pleasure is sacrificed to calmness in the long run. Loves and Happinesses Love and happiness do something in the relationship with others.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  At a great age, in the church which her husband had built almost entirely with his own means, she died, holding fast with one hand to the altar and raising the other imploringly to heaven, with the words: "Be gracious to me, O Christ, my King!" Amidst universal sorrow, especially among the widows and orphans whose comfort and help she had been, she was laid to rest by the side of her husband near the graves of the martyrs. Her affectionate son says in one of the poems in which he extols her piety and her blessed end: "Bewail, O mortals, the mortal race; but when one dies, like Nonna, praying, then weep I not." Gregory was early instructed in the Holy Scriptures and in the rudiments of science. He soon conceived a special predilection for the study of oratory, and

• From Between Us

  Dureau knows she would have had the monetary and cultural capital to get Astrid better medical care than had been available to Liza’s son. Dureau would not have been resigned, or merely prayed to God, because her position in life afforded her to exercise more control. And she could not even begin to imagine resigning in the death of her child, let alone never thinking about her anymore. Liza and Christine Dureau had different emotions, because they lived in different realities. The current wisdom in anthropology is that it is possible to approximate, or sometimes even share, the emotional experiences of individuals from other cultures, but also that you should not be too sure too soon that you do. As one anthropologist points out: “the problem with empathy is not that it involves feelings but that it assumes that first impressions are true.” Managing to understand other people’s emotions is not the same as sharing their experiences. Interestingly, approximating others’ feelings often means understanding how emotional episodes are tied to a context different from one’s own. It means to be aware of the incongruence of your emotions with the emotions of someone else. Christine Dureau eventually gained insight into the motherly love among Simbo women, not by projecting her own notions of love, but by trying to grasp how their love was situated in the conditions of child mortality, poverty, and hardship on the island. Empathy in a cross-cultural setting is unpacking another person’s emotions by tying them to their (social) realities. Importantly, recognizing these differences allows you to see the similarities as well. Even as you realize that you may never experience or do emotions in the same way, there can be resonance with people from other cultures. This resonance means that you humanize another person, trying to find meaning in their emotions, and in this way bridge some of the distance. From Cultural Competence to Humility Joop de Jong is a Dutch transcultural psychiatrist who is one of the driving forces of rethinking the Dutch mental health system to accommodate an increasingly multicultural clientele. He knew of my early work on culture and emotions and asked me in the mid-1990s to contribute to a volume on cross- cultural psychiatry and psychotherapy. How did my work on cultural differences in emotions speak to the psychotherapy and mental health context? I did not know, but the question intrigued me. A flurry of books on migrants had saturated the Dutch market at the time, all telling their white Dutch readers how to understand, and talk to, a growing immigrant population. Attention to diversity and inequality was much needed, then and now, both because of the demonstrated mental health disparities among racial and ethnic minorities, and because of the inadequacy of mental health provisions.

• From Between Us

  Managing to understand other people’s emotions is not the same as sharing their experiences. Interestingly, approximating others’ feelings often means understanding how emotional episodes are tied to a context different from one’s own. It means to be aware of the incongruence of your emotions with the emotions of someone else. Christine Dureau eventually gained insight into the motherly love among Simbo women, not by projecting her own notions of love, but by trying to grasp how their love was situated in the conditions of child mortality, poverty, and hardship on the island. Empathy in a cross-cultural setting is unpacking another person’s emotions by tying them to their (social) realities. Importantly, recognizing these differences allows you to see the similarities as well. Even as you realize that you may never experience or do emotions in the same way, there can be resonance with people from other cultures. This resonance means that you humanize another person, trying to find meaning in their emotions, and in this way bridge some of the distance. From Cultural Competence to Humility Joop de Jong is a Dutch transcultural psychiatrist who is one of the driving forces of rethinking the Dutch mental health system to accommodate an increasingly multicultural clientele. He knew of my early work on culture and emotions and asked me in the mid-1990s to contribute to a volume on cross-cultural psychiatry and psychotherapy. How did my work on cultural differences in emotions speak to the psychotherapy and mental health context? I did not know, but the question intrigued me. A flurry of books on migrants had saturated the Dutch market at the time, all telling their white Dutch readers how to understand, and talk to, a growing immigrant population. Attention to diversity and inequality was much needed, then and now, both because of the demonstrated mental health disparities among racial and ethnic minorities, and because of the inadequacy of mental health provisions. In practice, however, what was known then as “cultural competence” consisted of bits of knowledge about the values, beliefs, and attitudes of ethnic groups. In the U.S., these were the ethno-racial blocs that had been created by the U.S. Census—African American, Asian American and Pacific Islanders, Latinx, American Indian and Alaska Native, and White. Clinicians learned to think about these “blocs” in relatively stable, essentializing terms. Cultural competence was treated as set of concrete skills for mental health workers—a domain of expertise to which I had wanted to contribute a fact sheet on emotions. The “clarity” and “competence” that mental health workers once sought has since been replaced by “cultural humility.”

• From Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (2014)

  80 Some renouncers broke even more completely with the Vedic system and were denounced as heretics by the Brahmins. Two in particular made a lasting impact, and significantly, both came from the gana-sanghas. Destined for a military career, Vardhamana Jnatraputra (c. 599– 527) was the son of a Kshatriya chieftain of the Jnatra clan of Kundagrama, north of modern Patna. At the age of thirty, however, he changed course and became a renouncer. After a long, difficult apprenticeship, he achieved enlightenment and became a jina (“conqueror”); his followers became known as Jains. Even though he went further than anybody else in his renunciation of violence, it was natural for him, as a former warrior, to express his insights in military imagery. His followers called him Mahavira (“Great Champion”), the title of an intrepid warrior in the Rig Veda. Yet his regime was based wholly on nonviolence, one that vanquished every impulse to harm others. For Mahavira, the only way to achieve liberation (moksha) was to cultivate an attitude of friendliness toward everyone and everything. 81 Here, as in the Upanishads, we encounter the requirement found in many great world traditions that it is not enough to confine our benevolence to our own people or to those we find congenial; this partiality must be replaced by a practically expressed empathy for everybody, without exception. If this was practiced consistently, violence of any kind—verbal, martial, or systemic—becomes impossible. Mahavira taught his male and female disciples to develop a sympathy that had no bounds, to realize their profound kinship with all beings. Every single creature—even plants, water, fire, air, and rocks—had a jiva, a living “soul,” and must be treated with the respect that we wish to receive ourselves. 82 Most of his followers were Kshatriyas seeking an alternative to the warfare and structural segmentation of society. As warriors, they would have routinely distanced themselves from the enemy, carefully stifling their innate reluctance to kill their own kind. Jains, like the Upanishadic sages, taught their disciples to recognize their community with all others and relinquish the preoccupation with “us” and “them” that made fighting and structural oppression impossible, because a true “conqueror” did not inflict harm of any kind. Later, Jains would develop a complex mythology and cosmology, but in the early period nonviolence was their only precept: “All breathing, existing, living, sentient creatures should not be slain, nor treated with violence, nor abused, nor tormented, nor driven away. This is the pure, unchangeable law, which the enlightened ones who know have proclaimed.” 83 Unlike warriors who trained themselves to become impervious to the agony they inflicted, Jains deliberately attuned themselves to the pain of the world.

• From Between Us

  They and the rest of Tamalekar’s family spent the evening in quiet talk, with the [ . . . ] man speaking with respect and politeness. The visitor had distinguished himself by bringing a gift of a carton of cigarettes. The evening wore on past the point at which the family usually retired, and when the young man stepped out for a moment [ . . . ], Tamalekar said to his family, “We fago this one because he is calm. Even though we are sleepy, we’ll stay up and talk with him.” Later Tamalekar gave the man one of his valued possessions. The meaning of fago as taking care of someone does not change, but this time the nurturing is prompted by a man, who through his calm and kind behavior (not through his needs), demonstrates having compassion himself. Compassion meets compassion and nurturing; in this case, the act of fago is more reciprocal. Whereas love seeks joyful closeness between autonomous individuals who find each other special, fago is nurturing a person with whom a connection already exists, or else has come to be felt. Typically, fago is an unavoidable response to another person’s needs, whereas love is seeking closeness to another person of your choice, one who has special qualities and who is particularly appreciative of you. To be sure, loving partners will take care of each other in case of need, and fago-ing individuals may find joy in each other (as when the young man from the other island came to visit Tamalekar’s family). Yet the central acts of these two emotions differ, with love achieving mutual admiration, attraction, or longing, and fago achieving the nurturing of connected others in need. Each emotion is “right” because it achieves the most valued relationship goals in the culture. Remember that the Chinese word for love was categorized as a negative emotion, a form of sadness by Chinese participants? One reason may be that Chinese love simply runs a different course—one including the awareness of another person’s suffering, the sadness when life is hard on them, and the effort that goes into need satisfaction, rather than merely describing the bliss of connecting with a special individual. The bad always comes with the good.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  Isaac dries his hands on a dishtowel and straddles the bench to face me. “You’re leaking fluid otherwise known as tears. Are you aware of this?” I sniff pathetically. “I just hate croutons so much…” He clears his throat and squashes a smile. “As your doctor I’d advise you to sit up.” I sniff and straighten myself until I am in a sort of upright slump. We are both straddling the bench, now, facing each other. Isaac reaches out both thumbs and uses them to clear my cheeks of tears. He stops when he is cupping my face between his hands. “It hurts me when you cry.” His voice is so earnest, so open. I can’t speak like this. Everything I say sounds sterile and robotic. I try to look away, but he holds my face so that I can’t move. I don’t like being this close to him. He starts seeping into my pores. It tingles. “I’m crying, but I don’t feel anything,” I assure him. He pulls his lips into a tight line and nods. “Yes, I know. That’s what hurts me the most.” After the deal with the F. Cayley print, I take inventory of everything in the house. We could be missing something. I wish I had a pen, some paper, but our single Bic ran out of ink a long time ago… so I have to use my good ol’ memory for this one. There are sixty-three books scattered throughout the house. I’ve picked up each one, flipped through the pages, touched the numbers at the top right corners. I started reading two of them—both classics that I’ve already read—but I can’t get my mind to focus. I have twenty-three light, colorful sweaters, six pairs of jeans, six pairs of sweatpants, twelve pairs of socks, eighteen shirts, twelve pairs of yoga pants. One pair of rain boots—in Isaac’s size. There are six additional pieces of artwork on the walls, other than the F. Cayley; each of the others is by the Ukranian illusionist, Oleg Shuplyak. In the living room is “Sparrows” one of his milder pieces. But scattered across the rest of the house are the blurred faces of famous historical figures, blended almost indecipherably with landscapes. The one in the attic room disturbs me the most. I’ve tried to pry it from the wall with a butter knife, but it’s cemented so firmly I can’t get it to budge. It depicts a hooded man, his outstretched arms wielding two scythes. His mouth gapes and his eyes are two dark, empty holes. At first all you see is the eerie emptiness—the impending violence. Then your eyes adjust and the skull comes into view: the dark sockets of eyes between the scythes, the teeth, which seconds ago were simply a pattern on a garment. My kidnapper hung death in my bedroom.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  Then he puts the table back together. When he goes to his room I come down from the carousel room and creep into the kitchen. I’m still in my robe and my legs are cold. I feel naked without my cast. I press the back of my legs to the lip of the table, and hop up. I scoot back until I’m sitting, my legs hanging over the side. My runner’s legs look spindly and weak. A scar runs like a seam across my shin. I trace it lightly with the tip of my finger. I’m starting to look like a stitched-up Emo doll. All I need are the button eyes. I reach up, slipping my hand into the opening at the top of my robe, running my fingers across the skin on my chest. There are scars there too. Ugly ones. I’m used to being disfigured. It feels like parts of me keep being taken; eaten by disease, hacked off, snapped in two. I wonder when my body will become tired of it and just give up. I’ll never be able to run like I used to. I walk with a limp. I haven’t told Isaac, but my leg aches constantly. I like it. It’s dark in the kitchen. I don’t want to put the light on and risk Isaac knowing I was in here. If he is trying to avoid me, I’ll help him. But when I look up he’s standing in the doorway watching me. We stare at each other for the longest time. I feel anxious. It looks like he has something to say. I think he’s come to fight some more, but then I see something else in his eyes. He takes the steps to reach me. One … two … three … four. He’s standing in front of my knees. My hair is wild and unruly. I can’t remember the last time I brushed it. It’s grown past where my breasts used to be. Now it’s sort of a shawl across my upper body, so that even when I’m naked I don’t have to see myself. I don’t even bother to hide my white streak behind my ear like I usually do when Isaac is around. It curls in front of my eye, partly obscuring my vision. Isaac pushes my hair over my shoulder and I flinch involuntarily. Then he puts his hands on my knees. Their warmth stings. He pushes outward, spreading my legs, then he takes a step forward until he’s standing between them. He bends his head until our mouths are almost touching. Almost. The fingers on both of my hands are splayed on the tabletop behind me, balancing myself. I can feel the grooves of my carvings. The carvings Isaac helped me make. He doesn’t kiss me.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  He took me inside. Picked me right up and carried me through the French doors and set me gently on the couch. I lay down and curled up, tucking my knees under my chin. He tossed a blanket over me and started a fire, then he disappeared into the kitchen and I could hear him moving around. When he came back he made me sit up handing me a mug of something hot. “Tea,” he said. He had a few pieces of cheese and a slice of homemade bread on a plate. I’d made the bread on Christmas Eve. Before. I pushed the plate away, but took the tea. He watched me drink it from his haunches. It was sweet. He waited for me to finish and took the cup. “You need to eat.” I shook my head. “Why are you here?” My voice was raspy—too much screaming. My white streak dangled in front of my eye, I tucked it and looked at the flames. “Because you are.” I didn’t know what he meant. Did he feel responsible for me because he found me? I lay back down and curled up. He sat on the floor in front of the couch where I was lying, facing the fire. I closed my eyes and slept. When I woke he was gone. I sat up and stared around the room. Light was creeping in through the kitchen window, which meant I’d slept straight through the night. I had no reference for what time he carried me inside. I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and walked barefoot to the kitchen. Had he taken off my shoes after he carried me inside? I didn’t remember. I might not have been wearing shoes. There was fresh coffee in the pot and a clean mug sitting next to it. I picked up the mug and underneath he had left another card. Clever. He’d written something along the bottom. Call me if you need anything. Eat something. I crumpled the card in my fist and tossed it in the sink. “I won’t,” I said out loud. I turned on the faucet and let the water smear the words. I took a shower. Got dressed. Started another fire. Stared at the fire. I added a log. I stared at the fire. Around four o’clock I wandered into my office and sat behind my desk. My office was the most sterile room in the house. Most authors filled their writing space with warmth and color, pictures that inspire, chairs that allow them to think. My office consisted of a black lacquered desk in the center of an all white room: white walls, white ceiling, white tile. I needed emptiness to think, a clear white canvas to paint on. The black desk grounded me. Otherwise I’d just float around in all the white. Things distracted me. Or maybe they complicated me. I didn’t like to live with color. I wasn’t always like that. I learned to survive better.

• From How to Be a Great Lover (1999)

  (same number as for the New York store) This is the store that defines what an adult store should be like; clean, bright, tastefully presented, with nonjudgmental sales people that look like you and me. This and the New York store (see below) show the impact of being run and operated by the owner, who focuses on taking good care of the customers, the majority of whom are women and couples. Frenchy’s 872 N. State Street, Chicago, IL 60611 312–337–9190 This store has just undergone a major renovation in appearance and size. It is now three times larger and offers a wide range of products for both men and women. Minneapolis/St. Paul Fantasy House Gifts—this chain has ten stores in the area 716 West Lake Street Minneapolis, MN 55408 612–824–2459 Web site: www.fantasygifts.com Eight stores in Bloomington, Bernsville, St. Louis Park, Crystal, Fridley, Coon Rapids, St. Paul, and two stores in New Jersey, Marlion, and Turnersville. Adult material and novelties presented with a comfortable Midwest environment and attitude. They recently added the Condom Kingdom store in Minneapolis to their operation. Oklahoma Christie’s Toy Box 1184 N. MacArthur Blvd., Oklahoma City, OK 73127 405–942–4622 Christies is part of a chain of adult stores, ranked #1 in the state of Oklahoma. Stores also exist in Texas. EAST COAST New York The Pleasure Chest 156 Seventh Avenue South (between Charles and Perry) New York, NY 10014 212–242–4185 1–800–643–1025 direct to New York store customer service 1–800–316–9222 catalogue sales e-mail: apleasurechest.com Web site: www.apleasurechest.com The New York Pleasure Chest and its Chicago sister store are popular, classy, and well-stocked, with a range of products for both men and women, straight and gay. Eve’s Garden 119 West 57th Street, Suite 1201, New York, NY 10019 212–757–8651 1–800–848–3837 order line Web site: www.evesgarden.com This is a female-owned and operated store. What the Pleasure Chest did in 1972 for gay male consumers Eves Garden did for women in 1974. Located in the heart of midtown Manhattan, Eves Garden is in the least likely of areas. It’s known far and wide as the matriarch of feminine-focused, sex-positive merchandising. Condomania—New York 351 Bleecker St., New York, NY 10014 212–691–9442 1–800–9CONDOM U.S. national order line 323–930–5330 for ordering outside the U.S. 213–934–9784 fax Web site: www.condomania.com This is probably the best national source for ordering condoms by mail or phone, or on-line. Their Web site is secure and the store itself is friendly and filled with useful novelty items. North Carolina Adam & Eve P.O. Box 800, Carrboro, NC 27510 1–800–765-ADAM (2326) 919–644–1212 customer service This is the biggest mail-order company in the U.S. that offers a full range of adult novelty products. CANADA Toronto Seduction 577 Yonge Street, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4Y 1Z2 416–966–6969

• From Sister Outsider (1984)

  I was interviewed by a sweetly astute, motherly woman who was one of the members of the Union of Soviet Writers. She was doing a study of “Negro policy,” as she said, and of course she was very interested in women in the States. We talked for a good two hours and one of the things I told her was about the old woman on the plane with the medals, and I asked her if she had any idea what they were. She said the woman was probably an older farm worker who had been awarded and named a “Hero of the Republic.” Those were mostly given to people who worked very hard, she said. It was interesting because earlier, at lunch, I had seen a side of Helen, my interpreter, that surprised me. She was quite out of sorts with one of the waitresses who did not wait on her quickly enough, and it does take a long time to get waited on. Helen made a remark that the workers rule the country, and her manner and response to that seemed to be one of disgust, or at least rather put-off. I think Helen felt that she was being discriminated against, or that she was at a disadvantage, because she was an “intellectual,” a translator as well as an interpreter. Which struck me as an odd kind of snobbishness because Helen worked at least as hard, if not harder, than any waitress, running after me and living my life as well as hers. Because always, she stuck to me like white on rice.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I hear him near the fireplace. He’s lighting my log. My one, precious log. We were saving it. I guess the time for saving has come to an end. Usually he leaves when he’s done, goes to his own room, but the attic room is the warmest in the house and the only one left with a burning log. I feel the mattress shift under his weight as he sits next to my cocoon. “Do you have any of that chapstick left?” “Yes,” I say softly. “In the closet.” I hear him walk to the wooden armoire and move things around. We have one pink Zippo left. It’s on its last few drops of lighter fluid. We’ve been so careful, but no matter how careful you are, things eventually run out. “Chapstick will keep the fire burning longer,” he says. “It’ll make it hotter, too.” Some part of my brain wants to know how he knows this; I have a snarky question on the tip of my tongue: Did you learn that in medical survival school? But I can’t formulate the words to ask him. “I’m going to sleep in here with you,” he says, sitting on the bed. I open my eyes and stare into the whiteness of the comforter. The color white is so prevalent here. I was growing sick of it when everything went dark. Now I long for it. His weight lifts from the bed as he unrolls me. The minute the last of the blanket falls away, I begin shivering uncontrollably. I stare up at him from my back. He looks ragged. He’s lost so much weight it scares me. Wait. Did I already have that thought? I haven’t looked at myself in weeks. But my clothes—the ones the zookeeper left me—they hang and wilt over me like I’m a child wearing my mother’s things. Isaac leans down and scoops me up. I don’t know where he’s getting his strength. I can barely hold my head up anymore. The blanket is still underneath me. He lays me on the ground in front of the fire and spreads the blanket out around me. I don’t understand what he’s doing. Then my heart starts to pound. Isaac stands over me. I’m between his legs. Our eyes lock as he lowers himself over me; first to his knees, then his elbows. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I close my eyes and feel his weight, a little at first, then all at once. His body is warm. I moan from the shock of it. I want to wrap myself around him, absorb his heat, but I hold still. He pulls me up just enough to wrap his arms around my back. My eyes are still closed, but I can feel his breath on my face. “Senna,” he says softly. “Hmmm?” “Roll with me.”

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I needed something to distract myself. When I looked around, the first thing I saw was the fridge. I made a sandwich with the bread and the cold cuts Isaac kept stocked in my vegetable bin, and ate it sitting cross-legged on my kitchen counter. For all of his save the earth with hybrids and recycling bullshit, he was a soda fanatic. There were five variations of carbonated, stomach-eating, sugar-infested soda in my fridge. I grabbed the red can and popped the tab. I drank the whole thing watching the snow fall. Then I dug the CD from the trash. I listened to it ten times … twenty? I lost count. When Isaac walked through the door sometime after eight, I was draped in a blanket in front of the fire, my arms wrapped around my legs. My bare feet were tapping to the music. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at me. I wouldn’t look at him, so I kept to the fire, focused. He moved to the kitchen. I heard him cleaning up my sandwich mess. After a while he came in with two mugs and handed me one. Coffee. “You ate today.” He sat down on the floor and leaned his back against the sofa. He could have sat on the couch, but he sat on the floor with me. With me. I shrugged. “Yeah.” He kept staring at me and I squirmed, pressed down by his silver eyes. Then, what he said hit me. I hadn’t fed myself since it happened. I would have starved if not for Isaac. That sandwich was the first time I’d taken action to live. The significance felt both dark and light. We sat in silence drinking our coffee, listening to the words he left me. “Who is it?” I asked softly. Humbly. “Who is singing?” “Her name is Florence Welch.” “And the name of the song?” I sneaked a glance at his face. He was nodding slightly, like he approved of me asking. “Landscape.” I had a thousand words, but I held them tightly in my throat. I wasn’t good at saying. I was good at writing. I played with the corner of my blanket. Just ask him how he knew. I squeezed my eyes shut. It was so hard. Isaac took my mug and stood up to carry them to the kitchen. He was almost there when I called out. “Isaac?” He looked at me over his shoulder, his eyebrows up. “Thanks … for the coffee.” He tucked his lips in and nodded. We both knew that was not what I was going to say. I put my head between my knees and listened to Landscape.