Wait, Blink by Gunnhild Øyehaug

Author:Gunnhild Øyehaug
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-06-05T00:00:00+00:00

7

Trine has been down to Kaffebrenneriet and bought herself a large latte and a blueberry muffin, which she’s already eaten. She’s gotten undressed again and put on her dressing gown, and now realizes that this is what she wants to do, more than anything: to sit in bed with a paper cup between her hands while Oslo—the capital city of Oslo, which she’d thought she would get such a buzz from, now that she’s here on her first trip without Haldis—Oslo can just stay shivering outside her hotel window. She’s deeply disgusted by herself: all of a sudden she feels it, that she’s so bored of herself and her drastic and sarcastic ways of flaunting her sexuality, especially when she’s doing it on the back of a relationship in which sexuality had been very much at the forefront, as a way of sneering at the relationship, and at herself. These ploys, these exaggerated gestures—tongues lolling out of mouths, figs rubbing against clitorises, secrets painted with gin and vaginal juice on paper—doesn’t it all just feel like meat that’s become too dry to chew, doesn’t her mouth just feel tired of all this chewing, isn’t her body rejecting all that dried meat, isn’t her body gagging and forcing her mouth to spit it all out, despite the fact that the dry meat is actually her own tongue? Yes.

* * *

Her phone rings. It says Wanda on the screen. The very same Wanda whom we saw earlier sweating in Frognerparken, lying in her teenage bedroom smoking, is now calling Trine. What links Wanda and Trine together in this universe is a very liquid evening at the end of a theater studies course they both took when they were students a number of years ago, when they drank each other under the table, quite literally: they lay under the table and discovered that there were many reasons why the two of them, out of all the people in the class, should be so attracted to each other, as friends, that is: they were both die-hard fans of PJ Harvey, and they both thought that most other girls were uninteresting and all seemed to be kind of unaware of their androgynous potential. Wanda would definitely choose Tracey Emin over Karen Kilimnik’s glitter palace any day, but her favorite piece from the “Postfeminist Art” exhibition would actually be Sarah Lucas’s Self Portrait with Fried Eggs, where the artist is sitting leaned back in a chair, in a rather masculine way, with a fried egg on each breast. And that very same Wanda is now phoning Trine, and the name Wanda flashes on the display four times before Trine pulls herself together and answers. Hi, Trine says. Hello, Wanda replies. Great performance yesterday. Yes, but there wasn’t much chance to speak, Trine says. No, you left early, Wanda says. Yes, Trine replies, I had a headache. It was fucking good, what you did, Wanda says. Thanks, Trine says. I mean, Wanda continues, you had just the right distance to motherhood, unlike all the others of your kind.

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