Darkness

First a crack of light, then a pair of hands tear back sections of dark sky. She holds me up. I am sheathed in a pink, transparent material — rubbery, smooth, with a head that twists around in a circle like a sea-worm. She experiments with my buttons. I vibrate. My head turns one way, then the other. She stows me in some old clothes in the back of a closet. For days I lie there until the light opens up and she introduces me, gingerly, to a tall man in dark clothes. She seems nervous, as though introducing him to a new family member.

He is quiet at first and then laughs. He tackles her to the bed and uses me to tickle her ribs, her stomach. They laugh together and roll across the floor, pulling at their clothes, slipping their hands over bare skin. After that I am rarely put away. In the kitchen, she squeals one day as he sneaks up behind her and drops me in the salad. Like a game, I am hidden in strange places — behind the peanut butter, in his boot. When I am found, they pull at each others clothes, their hair, their bodies.

In the drawer, I wait patiently. More than the light, I am excited to see them. I like to imagine that I have something to do with their happiness, that my purpose somehow involves bringing joy into their lives. Now she keeps me in the top drawer of her dresser. I lie in her lacy underwear, with only a thin line of light as company. I do not like the dark. I never have.

Then one day, they fight. It begins after a phone call. She starts to cry. I hear footsteps. Something smashes in the kitchen, glass scattering. He says, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Light footsteps race out the door. Heavy footsteps follow.

Now, they seem to fight every day. Afterwards, she weeps quietly and I imagine her head in his lap, their soft hands holding each other. I have seen it before. Then his favorite TV show clicks on in the other room, and I know better. Eventually, her crying stops. Sometimes she joins him in front of the TV. Sometimes she takes a bath.

When he is not home she usually reads. Once she laid me on the bed and stared, pressing my buttons, on then off, as though contemplating, though what I cannot imagine. Once she hid me in his boot and then took me out again. Once she threw me back in the closet and then took me out again. It is strange to be with only one of them. One afternoon, I hear her on the phone. Somehow I know she is talking about me. She says I contain cancer causing Phthalates. She says, “I don’t want that crap in my body.” This is confusing, but I decide it is beyond my knowing.

When she is not home he often places me on the floor. Then he lies down, rolling back and forth over me as I vibrate into a trench of knotted muscle along his spine. Afterward he works my twisting head into the fleshy grooves of his arm. Always his right arm. It is strange to be with only one of them. Sometimes I hear him clicking on the computer, perhaps searching for the strange female voices. They sound like they are singing, or crying. I do not understand it.

One night, she begins wailing into her pillow. She does not stop. I hear him pleading “What’s wrong what’s wrong what’s wrong…” I worry, is this my fault? Did I somehow cause this? Perhaps my purpose is to bring sadness instead of joy.

A year passes. They have not rolled together under the sheets, or across the floor. I have settled into the back of the drawer, against the hard wood. Now, I only see the light for a few seconds a day, usually when she opens the drawer to snap up a pair of underwear. Everyday, their footsteps come and go. Doors slam. Doors shut softly. I have grown used to the darkness. Still, what I miss the most is them. Everyday, I lie beneath cloth, listening, waiting for their laughter, for the sky to open and a hand to pull me into the light.