Do It Yourself
by Esther GreenThe large yellow and black tiered box is rimed with dust. Ruth wipes a finger along its ridged top and sniffs the grey residue of dead skin, cobwebs and time. All it evokes is a sneeze. Getting herself a tissue, she grabs a wet cloth from the top of the kitchen sink and sets-to cleaning the outside of the layered toolbox. She wishes to erase the grime, and to polish and polish till it shines like – like what? A plastic container can’t shine, of course, but it can be cleansed and freed from the memories it might retain. She scrubs hard.
Then
Amahl was up the ladder reaching as high as she could. One more dab of filler, one more scrape of the filling knife. Ruth watched from the sofa. The deftness with which Amahl had repaired the scarred wall and prepped everything ready for painting in their long-haggled choice of colour stirred her, almost moved her. Ruth knew that the conversation about paint colours had been a mere gesture on Amahl’s part, Amahl who had no intention of painting the room in any other colour than the one she had chosen herself. She had allowed a fiction of discussion in which Ruth was allowed to participate but it was immaterial what Ruth thought as Amahl had planned and sketched and mapped out the décor with the exactitude of a sea captain plotting a course. In the execution of her labours, perhaps, Amahl could be likened more to a surgeon than a captain, with the focus and precision required of a scientist. Ruth used one foot to scratch up and down her other leg deliciously as she stretched out on the cushions and smiled at her own love of metaphor mixing. Does she know how I am thinking and thinking about her? Will she turn and look at me from under her dark angular fringe? She loved watching Amahl carefully select the right tool from the box, rejecting one, weighing up another, all of them cleaned and ordered and ready. Will she turn now? Look at me look at me look at me.
Then
She is lying there as if waiting to be painted. It is cold in the room and she isn’t wearing socks. She never wears socks then complains that she is freezing. Maybe I will rub her feet. I know when she is watching me. I can feel the penetration of her eyes in the back of my head as I work. She thinks I am lost in my own concentration and oblivious to her presence, conscious only of the tool in my hand and where I am to use it next. I am going to look at her now and she will smile at me. A sideways smile that promises laughter but also hints at thoughts she does not wish me to hear. There is a darkness that leaches out very faintly, visible in the eyes only fleetingly. I like knowing she is watching me and waiting for me; I like making her wait but I will come down the ladder now. She will have to wait a little longer while I put away all the tools. Each tool will be wiped with a soft cloth, rubbing away the powder of lime plaster, testament to a Victorian builder’s skill, but now blown and useless. Every one of my tools has a slot, shaped for each and every utensil. I will count them in and then make sure they all tally up. Ruth is scratching her leg again, sliding her pale foot up and down like a cicada. She does it when she is relaxed but I know she is impatient for me to finish my task. I’ll go to her in a moment but I like stretching her patience thinner. When I look up from my tool box and snap fast the clasp to seal its yellow lid, she has arranged herself a little more loosely on the sofa. Her skirt is smooth but has been pulled up to show more of her long bare legs. She is showing me. I go to her and I take one of her feet in my hands and begin to rub it, gently warming it, skin to skin. Her smile widens. I continue to knead but I lower my face to the other foot that she proffers and take a slow lick of a purple-lacquered nail as if tasting a rare sorbet. Encouraged, she stretches her leg pointing her foot and I suck each berry toe in turn, tasting her clean fresh sweetness. Her skin looks polished and is almost blemish free. I stop and take from my pocket a stiff square of sand paper which I then begin to rub up and down the sole of her foot, almost tenderly but with purpose.
Then
There was a sharp intake of breath from Ruth as the change in sensation hit her. Her feet had been warmed by Amahl’s hands which had firmly massaged one, while her tongue had laved the other. Now her skin was tingling with excoriation and the feeling was heightened by the rasp of the sand paper against her. When the sensation moved up first one leg, then the other, her heartbeat quickened. Blindfold me. I wish only to feel. Amahl took off the jumper which was round her waist and leaned forward to wrap it around Ruth’s head, covering her eyes, and lifting her head gently to tie it securely. Ruth could smell dust and sweat and deodorant and the sweet musk that was pure Amahl. She felt Amahl straddle her, something in her jeans pocket jabbing into her slightly. Amahl had pulled up Ruth’s skirt and bunched it above her waist. She smoothed her cold hand over the skin now exposed and then the pin pricks started one by one and another and another across the dome of her bare stomach. Ruth felt the gimlet pressing down into the skin, not enough to puncture but enough to sting, and to make a mark. Then there was the softer press of lips to counter each lance and Ruth sighed. She shifted slightly, moving her hips to meet Amahl’s thighs.
Then
I will do more this evening. I will press a little harder with the silver point and I will make the marks further down her stomach, down past those prominent hip bones, the top of her legs, to the fleshy inner thighs. She is flinching a bit and her muscles tense and contract. I smell her warm peppery scent, the scent of her wanting. There are red dots now on her skin and one or two of them have a bright spot of blood emerging. Out of my pocket I remove a clean soft paintbrush that smells very slightly of turps and I sweep it over and over the spots of pain, stroking the soreness with soft bristle. She is so quiet but moving slightly, towards me, wanting to meld her body with mine. I am done with the gimlet and the brush, and now I will offer her the tool I have just finished using during my afternoon of work. I love this tool and I look after it well, oiling its handle regularly, buffing its cold steel with linen. It has a fat wood handle, warm from use, smooth from care. I move back a bit and part her legs wide so that there is room for me to kneel between them. The smell of her is unique. It is getting stronger. She has just let out a small vocalised sigh because she feels the rounded end of the implement nudge at the edge of her labia. I circle it round and up, briefly touching the hood of her clitoris then sliding away and down again. She is raising her hips to me because she wants so much more. I love that she can’t see me but I can see her mouth opening and her tongue wetting her dry lips. She is all sensation. I lean over her and dribble down on to her mouth, and then with a finger, I oil her lips with my spit. She wants to lift her head and kiss me but I will not let her quite yet. I push the handle of the screwdriver between the other lips, the wetter lips, and it slides against slickness. Again I prick her skin with the sharp point of the gimlet. There are a few more drops of blood. I don’t wipe them away.
Then
Ruth knew that to move too much was to risk being pierced deeper with whatever it was Amahl was using. She stilled herself even as she wished to writhe. I trust her and I know that she will not really hurt me. I feel full and rounded and cut and stung. I am all sensation, hearing, smelling, tasting, feeling. I am safe with her and I love what she does. I want more. I want to melt my flesh into her flesh. To dissolve from two into one.
Then
My fingers gently prise open the lips of her mouth and I stroke her tongue with my index finger before putting the handle of the wooden screwdriver in for her to suck. She pulls her head back slightly in surprise but then settles with her lips round the object which tastes of herself. A trail of saliva escapes from her mouth. The sharp point of the tool faces me and I lower myself towards it and feel it scrape my collar bone, over the skin of my chest, my breast bone. I sway my body against it gently and know it will mark me. Subject and object; both, we are both. I slide sideways a bit and sit back to undo the buttons of my jeans and of her shirt. She doesn’t wear a bra; I kiss her breasts. She makes a little noise behind the tool that is still in her mouth and again her hips raise up and graze my own.
Then
I can’t see her because of her jumper and I have this strange implement in my mouth which tastes of me. I have felt her rub her skin along its sharp protruding end. I don’t want her to hurt herself. And when she kisses me on my breasts there is a pulse of electricity and of longing between my legs. I am relieved when she takes the tool out of my mouth but then she puts it in my two hands and curls my fingers around the handle. I know she is scraping herself against it again, but one of her hands is down and pulling quite hard on my pubic hair. It is like she has it in a fist. It hurts but then she has shimmied down away from the sharp thing I am clutching and while she still twists a bunch of hair, I can feel her tongue soothing everything below. Suddenly there is a sting like I have never felt before and something very sharp is piecing where her tongue has just been. I think I might cry out. Amahl strokes me and the pain subsides. Then she wipes a finger over my mouth and onto my tongue. I taste iron.
Then
I have made her bleed and she will be sore for a while. I will let her drop the tool from her hands and I will drop my gimlet onto the carpet beside me and we will just be the two of us, hands, lips, taste, touch. She wants me too much. She wants me in a manner that becomes a need. Her need presses on me, pierces me, I fear it will blind me. It is her turn to rise up and she takes the blindfold from her face and fumbles to free me of my jeans and knickers. But I have retreated and I am cold. I have an urge to go to my toolbox, check the tools, wipe them lovingly, stow them safely, count them all out and back in again but Ruth wants to fuck. She has her mouth on mine and fingers inside me. I am like ice; she can tell that I am absent and that she has lost me. She makes a sort of keening noise as her fingers push deeper. She wants me to come but knows that I will not. She kisses me desperately and I feel nothing. She is crying hot gulping tears, now ugly with loss. I peel myself away from her and stand up. I notice a bit of wall that isn’t quite smooth, where I have not skimmed the plaster neatly enough. It is a work of love, this wall built up to impermeability layer upon layer, from screeded lath to render of plaster, and floating-coat scoured to prevent cracking, keyed with a wire brush, layered over with a setting coat. Lime, sand, water, cement, commitment. The process takes days and patience waiting for each layer to dry, to harden. It is never rushed. The wall is coaxed into confidence and durability. When it is all ready to paint, the final task, I think the colours I have chosen will work; I feel colour and I know how to fix the mood of a room. But I am not sure that this will all get finished. I don’t like leaving things undone.
Now
Ruth looks at the toolbox which is now completely clean. She kneels down and unclasps the lid. With one deft movement she upends the container, and tools and implements spill chaotically to the floor. There are various small neat boxes which hold, variously, tacks, pins, screws and nails. She tips these out too and they drop with a light sound like a memory of icicles. Ruth kicks off her trainers, then heavily and slowly, she stands on the jagged pile. Sharp metal sticks into the soles of her feet, piercing her and the pain is sweet, serrated and cold.
