she hates she

I love the velvet softness of her chocolate skin. I have learned to love my breasts; still I desire hers: never obviously paler than her sun-touched face, the same tone as her stomach, thighs and legs. She has no wrinkles, none of the acne scars that mar my own face so obtrusively. Her lips, like mine, are full and soft; after brief, heartfelt visits, we used to kiss goodbye, and the love I had for her, coupled with the intense shock I always felt to discover that my face could sink into hers, made the hairs on my head rise. Her teeth are perfect white squares; when she wears blood red lipstick, and her lips part into that smile that could never be too wide, I melt in awe of her.

And yet. She cannot love herself.

She dresses her luscious curves in trendy fashions, but avoids the mirror of other people's eyes. I have known this woman all our lives, but never have I heard her accept a compliment. Not a smile, not even a quiet nod of acknowledgment. Her eyes glaze over for an instant before she moves the conversation along, as though all her efforts at style are merely a continuous internal competition that she knows she will not win. She doesn't want your validation. She doesn't need you to notice. She will never see herself as perfect. When we shop for makeup, she sighs and says, I wish I were mixed. They're so much prettier than we are, don't you think? No, I don't think. You are as dark as mahogany and you are perfect to me, I tell her, always. She shrugs, and tries the darkest shade of concealer. So I think she must know. She must agree, or she'd try to make herself lighter. So I leave her alone.

When he stepped into our story, she became lost to me forever. Scrawny and pale, with sharp nose and cruel eyes, he managed to captivate her somehow. I know now that it was because he was her first. Not just a lover, but a white lover. Apparently, any one would do. He must not have believee his luck when she looked at him, in all her beauty, and deigned to kiss him with the lips I love so dearly. From that moment, I know, he swore never to free her; and in her ignorance, she locked the door to his prison with her own hand and swallowed the key.

She thinks he's better than she is, though he doesn't work. She thinks he's better than me. His hair dances in the slightest breeze, it's true, but what is that to a woman who knows to see herself through her own eyes and love what is there? My hair towers above me and with combs and thread, plaits made by my own fingers, I can create sculptures in it, majestic pieces of art befitting of my own personal royalty. The queen that I be. But she hates me. She thinks I'm too proud, and foolish to boot. Were I more sensible, she says, I would tame my wildness with lye and force it to lie flat and straight like those who would rule me in thought and deed. Her white superiors. You'd look so much better with a perm, she said once. As I laughed a hearty, derisive laugh, she spit at me then walked quickly away. It was years before we spoke again.

The next time I saw her, she was hard to recognize. Her eyes were still wide, still brown, but they had no shine. She still had her style, but now she used it to cover up the mounds of fat that rolled and cascaded beneath the satin brown that is her skin. And her mouth, soft and pouty that I had always wished was mine, smiled smaller and less often.

You're fat. The words escaped me before the thought was even complete in my mind. She isn't the one I meant to blame; the accusation in my voice was directed only at him but, as is her wont, she moved the conversation swiftly along without acknowledging my misstep, and I never was able to explain that he was the one I hated for doing this to her. We had lunch. She nibbled at everything but dessert; when she finished hers, she asked me if I was going to eat mine. Confused and inexplicably, thoroughly sad, I passed her my plate. I don't remember anything we spoke about, but I did ask her about him. He was fine, working hard to take care of them both. She lost her job at L'Oreal, now she's preoccupied with making sure she's not a burden. But you supported him for six months before, I reminded her. Yes, but I'm not his responsibility. I have to be able to pull my own...colossal weight. She laughed for the first time. I didn't laugh with her.

On the way to the train station, we stopped in the supermarket to buy sprouts for the stirfry I was making for dinner. There was only one bag left in the shop, and the sprouts looked fairly miserable. But I needed them, so I picked it up. She bought doughnuts. A baker's dozen. Here, try these, I suggested gingerly and handed her a small bag of satsumas. Cautiously. That's when she stopped and looked me in the eyes for the first time. They were clear. She spoke with purpose. He beat me, you know. Just once. But I'm fine and he won't do it again. Then she brushed past me to the register to pay for her doughnuts, leaving me holding the last bag of sprouts, wilting on their expiration date. That was the last time I saw her.

They had a baby last year. A girl. Summer. I haven't seen her yet, but she sent me a lot of pictures once. Summer is pale, paler than I would have expected from a mother so dark. I looked through the photos, smiling wryly as I imagined how hard she must have willed her partner's genes to overpower hers. They are beautiful pictures: Summer with the cat, smiling. Summer grinning in the bathtub, reaching for the bubbles her mother blows over her. Summer staring into the camera lens, a question mark on her face, a carefree exuberance in her. She looks just like her mother, my sister. I hear my sister doesn't agree - she wouldn't dream of having a child that looks just like her. I hear she is as large as a house. The doughnuts are still a favorite, but now she eats - no, inhales - everything in sight. She works at Safeway, so she has a discount on groceries. How lucky. On Summer's first birthday, she had a garden barbecue for close friends, some family. I wasn't invited. There was an impressive spread, I hear; she made most of it. Everything but the cake. She ate most of it, too. Just as well I wasn't invited, I suppose; you're not supposed to cry at a toddler's birthday party.

I like to imagine what I would do if I had been forced to witness this latest manifestation of her demise: make a scene, insist that she pack a bag and follow me, that sadistic bastard be damned! Drag her and the child who would follow in her footsteps away, against their will if necessary, and promise her that I will help her start over, re-build. Beg her to forgive me for letting it get to this point. Beg her to let me show her what real love looks like. But she hates she, and always has. The choice to change can only be hers. And I choose to stand back and watch from afar. I have my own life to live, after all.

I'm looking through the pictures again. I am staring at my favorite: Summer staring into the camera lens, a question mark on her face, a carefree exuberance in her. I smile. I know that face. It reminds me of a happier time: of making mud pies with my sister by the side of our house, "cake" to eat with "candy", which we called the palm nuts we cracked open with broken cinderblocks. I run my fingers over the dark, dark curly hair in the picture. I kiss the image of my niece's face. I think to myself, At least she believes you are perfect. So maybe there is hope for you. When I put the picture away, I will have to go and start dinner; my fiance has invited some friends over. So I linger just a little longer and delay the mundane to pray for a brighter future.