The first of two works introduced by my previous framing essay.

I’m infatuated with the image of a bathroom with a large mirror and a counter with two sinks. I imagine the countertop as black but the bowls themselves being white. The counter is fitted into an alcove, wide enough for two people to stand side by side in front of it without touching(But they do touch. It’s incredibly important that they touch).  The bathroom is painted or tiled some warm color, perhaps orange, or maybe it’s just light colored wood panelling with warm lighting(I love warm lighting). The metallic faucets catch the light in their sheen. The floor tiles are an ecru color and slippery when wet. Covering it is a fluffy white bath mat that caresses my wet feet as I look in the mirror.

What’s important to this fantasy is that there’s only one, and I mean one, big mirror. Two would make the figures that stand in them seem too separate, too alone, as if they didn’t make the conscious choice to share the space with each other.

I want to be in that bathroom. I want that bathroom to be mine. I want to step out of its bathtub onto the plush carpet. I want to wrap myself in a large, fluffy towel and approach the counter with my still wet body. I dry my face with the towel and glance at the mirror. The mist conceals my reflection. There could be anyone there.

I pick up my detangling brush and begin to work through the kinks of my hair. 

Raise and pull. Raise and pull.

Out of the steam of the bathroom materializes another person. He too approaches the sink. Incorporeal where I was solid but all the same in many ways we were the same. We were the same.

I don’t look at him. Sometimes I don’t know how not to. Sometimes I don’t know how to. There isn’t a time that I don’t want to.

But that’s just like me, feeling love and not knowing how to handle it.

I look up at the mirror, the mist has cleared somewhat. I can see myself but I can’t pick out what I see of him.

I moisturize my face to make it soft, soft as the skin I now I feel against me. Pulling me close. Enveloping me. 

Around my waist, arm above arm, muscle against my soft middle.

I keep my eyes lowered as I continue to moisturize. I don’t know how to look at him.

I feel his lips against my neck and on reflex I move away, pulling my head into my shoulders.

He holds me tighter with one arm and uses the other to rub my arm in a soothing motion.

I relax again. It’s just like me, feeling love and not knowing how to handle it. 

His lips press against me in the same place, but this time I don’t move away. I never wanted to in the first place.

It is from those kisses that I know that I am worth loving, desirable. That my brown skin isn’t a barrier to his affection. Lord knows it has been for many other things.

I feel his hand on my chin as he gently raises my face, tenderly teaching me how to look at him.

My eyes see our reflection in the mirror, but, grasping my skin cream, I know not what ingredient nourishes me.

Red terracotta clay? Sweet honey? Pale yogurt? Freshly-pressed olive oil? Rich cocoa butter?

They all flicker before me. I know not which one is real. I know not which one I want.

If I dip my hand into the yogurt, will I be betraying my brown foremothers who weren’t given a choice? Would I even be anything beyond a fetish?

Would I understand the needs of the terracotta clay? The honey? The olive oil? Could I be what they need? Would I even be wanted?

What about that cocoa butter? It’s already in my skin. Honor my ancestors. Become that power couple, the perfect ideal. But then…but then, would the cocoa butter even want me? How many skin tones are put before my shade of brown?

Say it does, what if I desire a different scent, a different texture?

Should I feel guilty for tasting sweet honey? For anointing myself in olive oil? Molding a future together with terracotta clay? Mixing my life into yogurt?

I feel the kisses on my neck once again.

 Instead of looking into the mirror, I close my eyes and wave away the steam that still lingers in my fantasy. When I open my eyes, my man is dematerializing, gone just as easily as he came. Incorporeal where I am solid.

I’m infatuated with the image of a bathroom with a large mirror and a counter with two sinks. I imagine the countertop as black but the bowls themselves being white. The counter is fitted into an alcove, wide enough for two people to stand side by side in front of it without touching(But they do touch. It’s incredibly important that they touch).  The bathroom is painted or tiled some warm color, perhaps orange, or maybe it’s just light colored wood panelling with warm lighting(I love warm lighting). The metallic faucets catch the light in their sheen. The floor tiles are an ecru color and slippery when wet. Covering it is a fluffy white bath mat that caresses my wet feet as I look in the mirror.

What’s important to this fantasy is that there’s only one, and I mean one big mirror. Two would make the figure that stands in them feel too alone, too conflicted.