Argh. I can’t seem to continue this short story, which is supposed to be the first one in my collection for my thesis. I’ve tried working on the others already. But this one? I don’t know what my character wants (Omu as fictionalized character; not Omu, my friend okay?). Anyway, as I’ve said, I can’t seem to make her move. Perhaps it’s because I don’t seem to know what I want anymore.
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They call me Omu, short for Omalou. My parents broke down their names for me. I must explain this every time someone asks my name.
They tease me. Not about my name, but about my height. I stand 5 feet flat, and the length of my hair shortens my torso because it covers my back. I do not wear heels. I like walking close to the ground. I do not retaliate in their terms. I cannot, because I find something attractive in each of them, in the slightest imperfection of their bodies: a body so thin, I could break it; a faux British accent that makes me observe the movement of mouth; tattered nails from too much biting; skin tone the color of dirt.
I like my height. Short girls can have a lot of fun, I’d always tell them. I know my shortness emphasizes my large breasts. My full hips. And my face. When I stare at the full-length mirror, it is my face I see. I study my facial mannerisms well. I know I have a habit of licking my lips because I do not like them dry. And when I laugh, I know my big eyes sparkle because they hold more water. I am attractive, and this is how I retaliate, how I tease them back.
I am talking about the boys, of course. Boys do that, tease the girls they like. And the girls they reject. I don’t care what motivates them to tease me, as long as they continue.
One of them has stopped, though. The one with the broken front tooth. He used to be one of the best among them–when I’d talk ,he’d pretend to hear a voice from down under the table, or when I’d stoop to get something that had fallen, he’d tell me that I was so short, I need not stoop anymore. I looked forward to his jokes everyday, wondered what fresh banter he had for me, and slowly, carefully, he was getting worse at it. The day came when he suddenly stopped, fell silent with his jests. And we actually started talking. Sometimes I’d provoke him by appearing vulnerable to our friends’ jokes about short girls who want to have fun. Or make up anecdotes about how I struggled with my height, how it made me go unnoticed in a crowd of familiar faces, how I almost slipped on a chair I was standing on because I couldn’t reach the bookshelf. But he wouldn’t stir, and it was precisely what made me feel small. Weak. I do not know how to handle him, handle reciprocation. I am bold with my flirting, but what to do when a man responds? Expects. I don’t like it when they do.
I rejected him. I reject the boys I like. Tease the boys I reject. He opened up, wanted me to be the home of his weakness. But I am too at home with mine. There is no room for him to rest.
I am restless. I cannot stop myself from treating them all equally: my hand occasionally brushing against someone’s chest, my head resting on someone’s shoulder with my nose slightly touching neck, my leg on top of someone’s thigh, my finger in someone’s ear. It’s a sport for my singlehood, similar to hunting, except that I do not aim. I set a trap, open to everyone, assume a prey-like attitude, telling them of my failed past relationships. This is therapy for me, to speak of failure, the way speaking of trauma is both a gesture of recall and of healing. And these boys. They’re too nice. They do not know how to be indifferent. They do not know how to be straightforward.
I look at myself in the mirror, notice how its full length seems to frame my body, as if measuring the hollowness I felt when I saw a former lover last week, asked him jokingly if the girl he was with moments ago was his new catch, and ever so boldly, because I was sure he wasn’t over me yet. One does not forget that easily. He must have retaliated with a yes. I lift my skirt in front of this mirror, to see if my legs are too short, or perhaps my torso is too long, wondering why the crotch is always a basis for proportion. I touch the crotch in the mirror, and for a brief moment, realize how it might not break, because the woman facing it is more likely to be broken.