Butterfly Stitching by Shermin Kruse

Author:Shermin Kruse [Kruse, Shermin]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Publisher: Water Bird Press
Published: 2014-04-29T23:00:00+00:00

4

She is eight years old and swimming in the river just up the hill from her parents’ farm. There is a small waterfall a few strokes away. She swims to it, turns her back to the water, and fixes her senses on the sound of the waves as they pummel her skin. She bends her head forward. Her fingers look like paint brushes in the water, and she is a pink flower. Dying. And it is winter. There is a paint brush in the water. She paints her stem black and pulls out her rosy petals one at a time until she is naked. She hates being naked.

She sits up with a gasp. Her hand to her forehead. A dream. Relief. None of it real. Except that she was naked, as she was most mornings. She could not find any of her pillows and then realized that her face was at the foot of the giant bed. At least Davoud was not next to her. Every so often, he stayed the entire night. Woke up to her painful nightmare groans. Pried out the sheets she was clutching and stroked her hair with his heavy hands. A second or two. And then she was expected to be fully healed. He would fall back asleep and, as the night rolled on, sweat that stank like wet dirty laundry gathered in the dents beneath his muscular chest. But not last night. Waking up alone was a glorious thing.

There was a soft knock on the door. Laleh, her new maid, had joined them when Sudabeh got pregnant and her boyfriend finally married her. That was five years ago, four years after Samira married Davoud. Samira searched for the sheets so she could cover up before Laleh came in. They were pulled off the mattress and bunched up beneath her, as they were most mornings. Laleh knocked again. Oh, what does it matter? The woman’s seen me naked a million times. And yet it did matter. She did not like being found in the bed like that. Hated the true story it revealed about the night before. Of him being there, breathing all over her. She managed to pull up the sheets to her chest.

“Come in, Laleh.”

“Good morning, Khanum.” Laleh walked in with fresh, folded towels and a full bottle of lotion.

“What time is it?” Samira rubbed her temples.

“It’s six. Another headache, Khanum?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your bath is ready, Khanum.”

“It’s ready?”

“Yes.”

Laleh must have come in, filled the tub, then left again for fresh towels, all while Samira slept, naked and exposed, smelling of Davoud. She shuddered.

“Thank you.”

Laleh waited to be excused, but Samira fell back to bed and could not gather up the energy. At only twenty three, she felt old. Laleh took the hint and turned to leave when Samira said, “Wait, Laleh.”

“Yes, Khanum?”

Samira sat up again, hugging the silk sheets to her breast. “I hate this bed.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t like these posts. I’m constantly petrified of bumping my head into them.”

“Oh . . .”

“And it’s too big.

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