Trompe-l'œil

You shouldn't be here. Not like this. Not forever. His forever, not yours. Turn your face towards the window. No. Not that far. Back. A little more. There. Stay still.

Like a hairpin, you hold yourself where you have been placed. Much better. Tidier.

You hear the brush. The birds sing-songing outside the window. The smell of hot coals preparing for the night market. You remember the sweet taste of sticky chicken on your tongue. Like honey in a dream.

You want to look. Don't. You don't. You have been sitting for eleven days.

Not continuously. You are not a captive. Not yet anyway. You can go home in the evenings. You eat. You piss. You wash the smell of oil and turpentine from your hair. You sleep beside the wall because the roof leaks over the bed.

Then you return at sunrise. You tell your mother the money is good. It will be good. Eventually.

Relax your mouth. You relax it. No. You are pressing your lips together. You loosen them.

More. You part them slightly. There. You hate your mouth like this. You keep it there. Think of honey.

On the fifteenth day, your scar on your left cheek disappears. Your dress is blue like the sea, not muffled like clouds. Sharper. Less yours. Your hair laps gently at your thinner shoulders. It has never been so obedient. And your hands are softer too. The calluses dabbed and wiped away. And your fingers elongate to fit around glass teacups you have never felt. You think of honey. The chewy lingering char of caramelised meat. The woody stick licked clean.

By the twentieth day, you notice your nose. No one else would see it. You think. No one else would know about the small ridge where it healed badly after you fell from the Kapok tree. Your chest tightens. You remember your brother insisting that you jump.

You told your father he had pushed you. It wasn’t true. Not really, maybe. You remember your father catching your nose between two fingers and pretending to steal it.

Your laugh was still a gurgle back then. Now you can’t remember what you sound like when you laugh.

You look at your straight nose. It is perfect. Beautiful maybe. But not yours.

Your hands reach for your naked breasts. You lower them. Breathe. You agreed to this.

When you are finished, you stand in front of yourself.

You are beautiful.

You stare at your nose.

And then your mouth.

Your mouth waits slightly open. Innocent. Easy to manipulate into a kiss.

You pull your shawl over your shoulders. You take the envelope. Say nothing.

The door slams shut behind you. You do not look back.

Your life is lived. Children. Grandchildren.

At eighty-two, you die.

Nothing remarkable happens.

But you are sixteen for the next four hundred years.

You belong to men. Rich men.

You survive everyone who remembers your name.

Eventually, a museum owns you.

You are given a wall.

You are given a number.

You are given a light to flatter your gaping mouth.

A burnished frame.  Curated.

หญิงนิรนาม. Siam. 1601.